Vitae Aeternum
by supraturtle
Summary: A human hunter raised in the ranks of the infamous Steamwheedle Cartel. A haunted and powerful former Kirin Tor mage with some personal issues. A juvenile half-breed with rare magick that no one understands... except perhaps the deadliest enemies of mortal Azeroth. Heroes are in short supply and the raiding guild Vitae Aeternum sure knows how to pick'em!
1. Prologue

Prologue: Stone and Stone-Cold

His human, Natji, didn't talk much so the question naturally rated some consideration.

As far as death was concerned Grekthrope had compiled an extensive list of personal preferences and he'd died before so he had experience. Grekthrope was a small target and hopelessly corrupt but his talents hadn't always avoided the inevitable. He'd been resurrected from previous deaths because he'd planned out and kept his head. On that day plans were obviously inadequate and consequently rez was nigh an option, which was generally the point of an execution.

Real death wasn't a problem, not really. You bought the whole farm exactly once... and who cared after? Aye, Grekthrope was annoyed that they'd fugged up, but t'was primarily concerned with methodology: their promised demise wasn't high on his death list… in fact he wasn't quite sure he'd got the whole jist of just how t'was to be done.

He liked lists, made mostly to pass time and distract from the mortal or morose. He kept a number of mental tallies, such as Best Foods (one made of his native delicacies and one of all others,) Favorite Women (roughly organized by the same rules as his Death Wish-List,) Reasons to Return to the Home Islands (which Natji claimed was actually random and constantly called him out on,) Worst Mistakes by Others, Prettiest Sunsets, Softest Beds, Stupidest or Smartest Animals, Most Useless Spells… and a host of many others. He had a great head for it and seriously hoped to lose that head if ever his list was complete.

The Death List DID had a SLIGHT caveat: Vainly, privately, he'd wished to buy the whole farm at old age, with a fatty layer of sin, in the arms of multiple dolorous womenfolk. He could dream, but to die a fogie, asleep and well-sexed was too unfathomable and didn't warrant serious consideration. He could expect a bitter end, but preferred sudden, low-fuss, methods. Professional decapitation was THE favorite. No head, no rez, no problem, so topped the list.

Methods he'd experienced fell immediately to the bottom of his list, since a knowledge of what to expect lessened the appeal. In sixty years he'd been frozen, burnt, poisoned, suffocated and drowned, beaten to clinical death and bled out-those among the fatalities he'd recognized or understood. There were such exceptions as Unknown Magic, Nae the Purple Fungus or That Sound is Bad which he couldn't quite classify or recall exactly. After resurrection he'd typically preferred the particular not repeated because pain sucked and repeats bored him.

Natji had actually never died, so, again naturally, the human lacked perspective.

Magefire for example: A Least Preferred of deaths. Magickal conflagration was too much bother with flailed humiliation and a LOT of pain before and after. The onslaught of heals and extensive recovery from severe burns-even at the hands of a healer of vast talent-FAR exceeded the typically acute misery of resurrection. Death hurt, but in MOST cases, resurrection hurt more but at least you always got over it.

An execution by devoutly violent tauren of quaint Bloodhoof Village had potential for greatness. Instead the hicks found a new level of ineptitude. To somehow be pulled apart by beasts of burden? He'd not thought of such previously, faint wonder and made low spot in his tally as he mused on and shuffled his Death List. The current predicament had left Grekthrope plenty of time to organize. He'd hoped to be beheaded but Natji had determined that as unlikely-had even suggested the notion to their captors and consequently suffered a more than conceptual refusal. Grekthrope had grunted, most unimpressed, reflected on his natural hatred of amateurs in any form and appreciated Natji's additional bruises. He'd always held the welfare of his investments paramount.

Grekthrope Zang Witx Frong was a goblin. Middle-aged, not too tall nor stunted stood at four feet, four inches. He still had most of both ears on his head and all eight digits on crafty, talented hands. The fact he still HAD a head spoke volumes to his clever and ruthless nature. The miserable humors of Azerothian extremes had yet to rob him of his healthy olive complexion and trusty libido, or said head, two-score years since he'd contracted out of Kezan. He worked out, dressed sharp and women liked him. T'was fairly well-off and not in the least superstitious. The only goblin gods were their investments and of course the best of ventures involved risk to life and limb and reputation. No matter... as a certain apathy toward mortality and a practiced disregard of morality was vital in risk management strategy. He also saw a need for significant diversity in a portfolio and so invested greatly in his human. Raised the Lost Pup from the moment he'd acquired the orphan at a bargain price. Taught his human much of what he knew. Not everything, of course, but enough. Shared all the danger and a tidy fraction of the profits. Goblins rarely suffered to trust… anyone... so thus he had an edge. Humans in general WERE conscientiously tall, had sadly insubstantial ears, too many and too-large fingers and tended to be pungent in a manner distasteful to goblin tolerances. But Natji was resourceful, slender and quick, strong and sharp.

Natji Bumpo... the Lost Pup hadn't a proper given name, but Grekthrope figured advantage came from adversity and drilled him in the arts of pseudonym and anonymity. When the boy insisted that he was born a Hunter, the goblin sent him at no small cost to the best of the few Hunter Trainers who'd still clandestinely train humans. He'd tolerated the boy's educational intrigue with the assassin Pheona until that little triste had tragically and conveniently gone south. Under Grekthrope's careful administration the Lost Pup was quite the scary freak... in a cartel populous of freaky scary folk. He was often proud of his human, his investment, his labor of… well, his labor. As a team they worked well. Had to. Grekthrope saw no need to alter the arrangement in the foreseeable future.

This assumed a future foreseeable beyond Bloodhoof Village.

Jabbey utilized Grekthrope and Natji on his toughest fixes. Jabbey was THE current Steamwheedle Cartel bigwig and t'was a fair bet to stay as such. He'd recently ousted nearly all the previous rivals with but a few loose ends. Steamwheedle had been a premier cartel on Azeroth before the death of the long-sat Old Boss… cursed and unlamented as he was. Jabbey's Steamwheedle was still maintained a major force among the rivals as the New Boss had efficiently consolidated and deftly recovered from the chaotic schism with the firm succor, seduction or slaughter of subsequent successors and scornfully opposed scoundrels. Jabbey utilized Grekthrope and Natji Bumpo as his prime Fixers-they who fixed loose ends with oft more than simple brute force. The elevated duo took only the choicest, riskiest, ticklish tasks for only the steepest slopes of profit. Of course Jabbey was fully expected to try to kill his best; One Could Never Be Too Important was the goblin wisdom. He'd never had survived his recent coup of Steamwheedle had he not the Lost Pup and Grekthrope firmly in his corner. The arrangement worked until… it didn't... which had potential for a ticklish and profitable day once and if arrived, Grekthrope considered.

The path to such prestige was necessarily a bloody one. So, logically, if death or dismemberment wasn't a concern Grekthrope failed to honor to his investments. Jabbey's appreciations gave welcome profit from blurry years of peril and misadventure in the name of Steamwheedle Cartel.

Not all perfection: The Lost Pup had a weak spot with women. Fair enough; the goblin was a fountain of advice, a fair bit of a pimp and born to scheme. Natji also had the Arakkoa in his head. The human talked to ghosts it seemed. This phenomenon Grekthrope accepted warilly. Admittedly he knew not what the chimera of near-extinct alien voices might indicate about the human's mental state. His human had been through a lot, so the goblin allowed Natji some quirks. Perhaps a mechanism of cope, t'was, as Grekthrope had his lists.

Fair enough again; One best survived frequent and potentially lethal adversity by an embrace of a notion that one was already dead or too bent to care. Stone or Stone Cold so taught the goblin maxim. Grekthrope had struggled mightily to learn the Arakkoan language from Natji. An absolute advantage as they'd met no one else who spoke it... and THAT sure helped with the crazy in any plan.

Trust in his human perhaps too had palpable negative results. For example; Grekthrope came to fear that they'd trusted Jabbey a mite too far with this mission, this fix. Trust in his human had apparently made him careless, complacent or overconfident. And one had best be at the top of form and scheme if one dared tauren tradition and law on tauren home ground with a plan for a fix that didn't exactly have the loftiest of tauren interests held in any high regard.

Bloodhoof Village was quiet, beautiful, spiritual and primitive even by tauren standards. Not much more than a post for vocational and spiritual education, t'was buried belly-deep in the Mulgore region's prairie desolation. Near equatorial on the Kalimdor continent and was a kobold cluster end-all to the most rural of dumps. And Grekthrope and Natji had seen some of the most kobold-cluster cursed rural dumps on Azeroth. Furbolgs went mad in Mulgore from too much nature. If t'was not hectares of yellow grass, knee-deep rocky red clay or frigid water, t'was trying to kill you and if so t'was most likely a tauren: Mulgore was, in fact, their home realm.

Tauren were burly, bipedal and assumably sapient hulks visually and distantly akin to cows or bulls. Horned, huge and somewhat clumsy the tauren mein was typically maternal, pastoral and unsophisticated left to their own. In deference Thrall's Horde recruited tauren youth with zealous success, a small wonder given the typical traditional alternatives of mostly bucolic or religious career paths. Recruited from the choicest herds impressionable young tauren made for hearty killers and grand adventurers. An adolescent female tauren could tear a goblin apart with little effort. The adept wielded weapons that outweighed most opponents.

T'was a slander that tauren smelled like their primitive cousins; Nae. The species prided themselves on cleanliness and pleasant individual scents both artificial and natural. For example, the nearest acolyte guard carried a delightful peppermint and jasmine air whenever she leant close to beat Grekthrope with her whip. The clouds of flies as constant to tauren as broken enemies and Mulgore Firewater were drawn by a musk undetectable to other species and had evolved a harmonic relationship to the species' estrus cycle. The bigger the cloud, the randier the tauren. The goblin preferred to not dwell on this given his current unique perspective on their physiology.

T'was unfortunate that the modern and most violent factions held little sway among the traditionally spiritual and reflective muckety-mucks of backwater Bloodhoof Village. Priestly, nominally peaceful Elders instead presided over Grekthrope and Natji's recent capture and internment. Such fogies naturally insisted that Bloodhoof-an ancestral gateway to the breeding plains, on the Mulgor Overland Route to the tauren capital of Thunder Bluff-remain a quiet and devout vestibule of worship and education despite misguided modern values and the outrages of restless youth.

The goblin stayed a tolerant, captive witness. His human translated the cows' misguided ramble for him. The tauren were long-winded, out of their subjective element, practiced an uncompromisable class system and were impressively accomplished inebriates, so the proceedings had stretched on a day and night since the lawyers had departed.

Lawyers. Pish.

The goblin tried to work a kink from his shoulder. Swore with several languages to illustrate his effort. Curses in a dozen languages he knew well enough but Natji Bumpo had the far superior ear for folks' speak and a most brilliant tongue, though such talents were ironic for someone habitually terse. So Natji had slept or translated minimalistically, both his ways as he could crash anywhere and didn't talk much. Translation involved much reiteration and repeat so Natji naturally recapitulated the Taurahe bloviate with minimal laconics. "Bugs," or "Thae Women Thing," or "Fuggin Weather," were such epigrams that fair suited the human's pithy habits.

"Killin' Us" was a popular subject, second only to "Booze" or "Grass Stuff" and had set Grekthrope in his greatest funk. The Village Elders had considered some of the stupidest ways possible to end a being-had so proven that tauren fogies hadn't the slightest idea what they were on about. This caused Grekthrope to long the deft intervention of professional murderers such as he was used to. Had the tauren been in a proper mood to take advice, he may had even suggested a few names he knew. A bloody nose and bruised ribs were indeed a discomfort when one was tied upside-down so he figured he'd give poor Natji a much-needed break. Alas the human had asked THE question the goblin owed him an answer.

Grekthrope and Natji were tied by their ankles and wrists to a cross of sturdy birch trunks. Crucified inverted in the most central and largest rawhide and post wigwam in Bloodhoof Village-likely some sort of honor. Gathered about the central bonfire the most important bovine tribesmen grunted in back-and-forth Elder Taurahe, planned the execution and sought some vague input from their spirit guides. Interacted with the lower class tauren strictly through a small cadre of acolyte guards. Drank heavily and chattered on with "big words" about "god stuff."

"Big words" indeed. To Grekthrope they bespoke mostly the huffs and bellows of cows. As far as "god stuff" went their religion was typical; rote, abstinence, pennance, Killing Is Bad But... that sort of thing. The Lost Pup kept him informed with his freakish gift for languages. Minimally, as Natji was not much a talker; something Grekthrope so appreciated but oft redemonstrated. Human and goblin shared their own observations in Goblitesh, cramped in upturnt restraint and were mostly ignored by the tauren muckety-mucks. The duo suffered the expected professional abuse from the acolyte guards, mostly because Grekthrope talked too much and Natji too little. The two licked their wounds and carried on.

"Thinkin' our hosts be outa their league," Grekthrope mused aloud.

The Elders had deemed their village of teachers and holymen unequipped to punish such dire crimes as the two villains had dared commit. Unprepared to punish the blasphemies of a spiritually corrupt modern world, wisely the isolated leadership requested outside mediators for the judgement of the goblin criminal and his human toady. The leadership had acted on the humble suggestion of a stranger wanderer who'd packed up and left soon after. The suggestion helped as the sacred and exclusive dialects of Elder Taurahe could nigh well parse the concept of drug dealers.

"Sorry we put'em out," Natji replied unenthusiastically.

As apparent dumb luck would have it a team of junior legislators had been on a whirlwind inspection of shaman training about the breeding plains and training cadres. A happy coincidence that placed a learned-of-justice group in the region of Mulgore and only a few miles south at Camp Narache. A runner had been sent, returned with the unhappy city-folk in tow.

Cartel intelligence reported the very same appropriated law-adepts secretly on Jabbey's payroll. The Steamwheedle Cartel plan relied on their talent and cooperation-which made sense in Grekthrope's loosely practiced religion that denied belief in coincidence or luck. The grand strategy was delay as the plan also hinged on Jabbey's rarely-practiced punctuality in arranged rescues. The tauren relied on the lawyers' experience to determine punishment for the duo's unprecedented and undeniable crimes.

"Jabbey's late," Grekthrope whined again.

"Hum," Natji agreed again.

Plans were often futile. Situations were always fluid. Most luck came in three flavors and 'good' was a rumor for legend and pageant only. Circumstance had gone nowhere but ary after Grekthrope and Natji had dutifully buried their Venture Company rivals in shallow unadorned graves in the Mulgor highlands. Turned out the Venture Coe corpses had friends. Said friends feared for the continued conduct of their very particular trade and nifty profits. Said friends acted decisively and vengefully, engineered the betrayal and capture of Natji and Grekthrope. Said friends had then evidently found some very big rocks under which to hide until the storm blew over. The Venture Company corpses' friends, however, weren't overly particular when it came to resumption of their vital trade. Demonstredally their loyalties and distributive talents applied liberally to whomever-Steamwheedle or Venture Coe in this case-provided consistent supplies of treated Murloc Bloom. Competition was the heart of prosperity, so said someone once.

Fortunate and timely, t'was, that Jabbey had arranged just such a 'Bloom consignment under muted Steamwheedle heralds to arrive in the next days. Alas sadly, rumors held that the rival Venture Coe caravan would not be on time… not on ANYONE'S time given that their current status was a scatter of charcoal lumps arrayed about the wreckage of two ominously empty wagons somewhere lost in the Barrens well short of Mulgore borders.

So came the Fixers to be crucified in Bloodhoof Village, the closest semblance to civilization for one hundred miles. So came the villains to be the concern of the tauren Elders, the nearest equivalent to a constabulary within reasonable reach. So then had their fate been laid in the hands of the lawyers and a crafty interpretation of naive tauren village law.

As bad luck would have it the requested legislators were orcs and weary of their travels.

As blind luck would have it the Orcish word for 'advocate' was close to 'coward' and 'undeniably guilty' sounded remarkably similar to 'loose bowels.' The acolyte translator made several such mistakes in the tedious, saturated process of rendition. Natji had made attempts to aid in the effort with polite corrections. He had been rewarded with a mild battering by the acolyte guards, so he'd kept his tongue and grudged helpless over THAT conversation.

T'was no exact word in Orcish for 'innocence.' T'was, however, close terms for 'guilt.' Lower class and younger tauren spoke Orcish, the Horde staple. The notable exceptions were, naturally, the Bloodhoof Village Elders who claimed limitation to whatever obscure dialects brought them closer to The Gods and Orcish was not a particularly spiritual language. Communication had been tedious. Orcs and tauren did not get along as a dim rule but the minimal exemptions were made in the pursuit of justice and for the Horde. Dialectical Taurahe had plenty of colorful terms for murder but lacked an effective descriptive for profiteers of substance abuse at large.

Conveniently there was no question of innocence. The evidence was damnably prolific. The absence of the honored Venture Coe victims conspicuous and assuredly fatal. The effect of Murloc Bloom on the population was an infamously endemic issue. But there were points of order to be made, matters of protocol to observe, a potential for witness testimony that would take days to collect. So naturally the grim orc lawyers eloquently recommended capital punishment within minutes of their arrival and orientation. Grekthrope and Natji naturally gaped. The litigations had taken mere minutes where the Cartel plan called for days of due process.

The chosen descriptor for execution in Taurahe approximated 'justly put down disallowed to graze done on purpose painfully.' Grekthrope disliked the emphasis on 'painfully.' Natji was troubled by the word 'graze' in his translation. The Bloodhoof Village Elders effectively had no penalty for crimes worse than theft, littering or trainee hazing. Somehow banishment sent the wrong message for anyone else employed in the dastardly acts the tauren hadn't quite been able to describe in their archaic terms. Alas they liked the capital emphasis on 'down' and 'painfully' and offered no correction.

An unenviable task neatly concluded, the orcs gruffly declined any invitations to stay and witness. Instead they requested the fastest kodos back to the relative metropolis of Thunder Bluff and prayed for escape via hippogriff flight to just about anywhere else. Apparently the lawyers had forgotten about the nuances of a preplanned, paid-for delay. Perhaps the orcs had underestimated the effect of Mulgore Firewater on their performance. Perhaps they had been confused by the complexities of the arrangement. Perhaps the money had exchanged hands upfront. Perhaps they didn't care. No one bothered to ask the goblin or his human. And Jabbey's promised agents of salvation were late. Old news. The hours passed of abuse, boredom and divinity since had numbed the Fixers' shock.

"I find it odd," Grekthrope considered to pass the time. "Thae tauren keep pack animals."

"Huh?" Natji asked. "Ye mean kodos?"

"Slavers," the guard nearest rumbled. "Quiet," the bruiser warned but rated naught a glance from the condemned. The acolyte bristled, glowered a silent promise of remedial escalation, having so deigned to speak Common.

"Slavers?" Grekthrope quizzed.

The scaffold shook so the goblin figured his human had shrugged. "Been on 'bout thae for a while. I dinnae get it too," the Pup admitted. "Say what 'bout kodos now?"

"I mean," the goblin pointlessly lifted an astute brow, "I mean, humans dinnae keep monkeys for burden or ride them to battle."

The human screwed up his face. "Monkeese?" he asked.

"Uh. Ye recall," Grekthrope replied, "the mechanical J.D. brought to the tavern afore she left fer the 'Crater?"

"Funny t'was," Natji recalled. "Seen biggapes in Stranglethorn," he admitted helpfully.

"Monkeys be smaller then apes," the goblin explained. "Dirtier."

"So," the human estimated. "Kinda like goblins."

"Sure," Grekthrope conceded. "Monkeys got better manners then me own folk and dinnae understand profit."

"Still dinnae get it," the human admitted. "Monkeese gotta do with kodos?"

"Tauren are cows," the goblin explained tiredly. "Humans be monkeys… related," he explicated. "I find thae ironical."

"Ne'er related wit biggapes," the human protested in distaste.

"Nae directly oh course," Grekthrope clarified.

"Ye nae make sense," Natji insisted.

"Wait," Grekthrope paused, ears perked. "Ye a hunter. Ye got Monkey Aspect. How cannae ye know what a monkey t'is?" he quizzed dubiously.

"Ye mean Mungiaspeck?" Natji quizzed.

Grekthrope groaned. "Monkey-Aspect."

"Magic makes me quick," the human noted. "What'all gotta do wit dirty li'l biggapes?" he boggled.

"Monkey," the goblin retorted. "Aspect. Monkey Aspect."

"Why would Ulfir teach such a thin'?" Natji protested. "I already be human."

"Huh?" Grekthrope shook his head.

"Mon-keys be humans, ye said it," the human reminded him.

"Thrice damn slavers!" Stood over them, the guard had finally had enough. He walloped Natji with a hoof to the ribs, walked calmly around the scaffold and thwapped Grekthrope on the head with his crop. "Shut it down we told ye!"

The two grimaced. Natji coughed "soft beak" in Arakkoan. Grekthrope waited for the guard to stomp off before he whispered an uncomplimentary speculation on tauren sexual practices among kin-in his native Goblitesh. A few breaths to recover and the goblin pulled the conversation right back on track, something he also had a talent for. "Forget the monkey thing. Tell me the other aspects." He laughed aloud. "Heh, tell me 'bout the one makes ye run fast."

"Huh? Easy," Natji murmured. "T'is Espectacheater."

"Ugh," Grekthrope sagged. "No more lessons with Ulfir."

"Nae problem," Natji agreed. "Thae gold we give him t'was nae-"

"We gonna talk this over," the goblin interjected. "Later on," he promised.

"T'is good we getten exec-uted then," Natji concurred. "Cause ye nae makin' sense," he insisted. "An ye talk too much," he muttered in addendum.

Grekthrope silently decided the matter as settled with more important matters afoot.

Left to their own the tauren, dogged traditionalists, argued for hours to decide if execution was more appropriately performed at sunset or sunrise. Decision: Noon. Further they debated whether children or trainees should be allowed or disallowed as witness. Decision: Compulsory. Met the last point of order on likely the biggest day in Mulgore since the Sundering with a vote on the actual execution method. Concerned with the uncertainties of permanent dispatch in a world of magick resurrectionists and vengeful revenants the ultimate fate of the goblin and human criminals was given over to the brightest resources of Bloodhoof Village imaginations. Decision: Dismemberment.

The Elders decided they'd made the best choice in a difficult situation, which naturally called for a drink. Quietly they admitted that they'd hoped the lawyers would have arrested and taken the goblin and human to a more modern date with justice in the city. Alas nae. Alas they were left to execute the prescribed death sentence on the villains. So the Elders boozed down, prayed over and stayed up all night to determine a traditionally proper course. The sun approached seasonal noon. And so the goblin and human awaited Cartel salvation or kodo separation. Passed the time with idle chat much to the annoyance of their guards.

"T'ain't rally talked to ye," Grekthrope noted in his most motherly tone. "Not since Pheona bought it."

"She knew what she t'was 'bout," Natji replied flatly. "Chose she did."

"S'pose," The goblin harrumphed. "Surprised she din't make it."

"Me too," Natji muttered, barely audible.

"So... Ulfir gave ye the boot," he persisted. "And nae a refund?"

"Hum," Natji acknowledged.

"'But ye tamed a pet," the goblin observed. "So I guessin' all the cash went to Ulfir t'was worth what he teached back."

"Hum," Natji replied vaguely. "I rally be a hunter now," he judged. He shook his head, frowned and added, "'bout this 'cash.' I dinnae think-"

"Grampose. A boar? Great pet I say," Grekthrope added quickly, "even if he piss on e'erthin'... hates e'erybody."

"Grampose like ye jist fine," Natji admitted.

"Do he?" Grekthrope asked warmly. "Ye sure 'bout that?"

Another guard growled, had stepped up. "Thrice damn slavers," the thug spat. "What gonna take to shut ye up?" Punctuated the rhetorical with a round of the whip applied liberally on both the condemned. The two quietly accepted their punishment until the tauren bored of the sport and lumbered back to the dice and drink arrayed thereto among his fellows sat about a small table along the wigwam wall.

"Mud dweller," Natji sneered in Arakkoan.

"Featherless ballsack," Grekthrope agreed in the same language.

A pause to catch their breath before they continued their previous conversation.

"Obviously I t'ain't privy," Grekthrope huffed. "To boar emotions. Like ye 'parently be."

"Grampose pissed on ye din't he?" Natji replied in Goblitesh. "He cares," his grin went unseen by the goblin.

Grekthrope tipped his head. Changed the subject retrograde. "I dinnae like Pheona and she dinnae like me," he prompted.

Natji sighed, "kinda wish went different."

"So why did it?" the goblin asked. "Ye nae 'zactly tell me the whole thing."

"Hum," the human grunted. "Din't work out," the Lost Pup betrayed a slight pang in his tone. "Knew what's-what she did," he repeated evasively.

"Pup!" Grekthrope scorned. "Thae was big and ye should tell me-"

A leather strap smacked across Grekthrope's back and the goblin choked on an oath. "Stop the fuggin gob talk," sneered the successor guard from the other end of his whip. The acolyte paused, stood upright and considered his bosses nearby. Across a floor of packed grasses and skin rugs two of the tauren Eldership had come awake and afoot from another bout of nodded prayer, trumpeted sudden importance in their throaty language. After a few foggy blinks of uncertainty to the guard's stalwart vigilance they gestured a wavered dismissal and wisely returned seated as alcohol addled constitutions took exception to such uprightness.

"She bought the whole farm," Natji muttered. "Nuff said."

"Good riddance," the goblin gritted.

And so had come the question.

"We gonna die, huh?" Natji asked evenly.

Grekthrope's artistic face of denial was lost since Natji couldn't see him. He twisted about and jabbed with his foot, tapped Natji's boot and shook the entire frame from which they were suspended. "Now why would ye say thae?" he retorted.

"Cause ye talkin' stupid," Natji explained. "Always talk stupid when we gonna die."

"What stupid?" Grekthrope protested. "I ask ye bout Pheona cause I care!"

"Told ye bout Pheona weeks ago," Natji insisted. "Monkeese? Crap 'bout me hunter spells?"

"Monkeys AND humans," the goblin corrected him. "T'was jist ponderin' on the mysteries oh evolution," the goblin explicated with an artsy affront.

"Nae ponder evil-ooshen afore," the human insisted. "Stupid... git room on ye tongue cause ye outta ideas."

"Well," Grekthrope slumped. "Well. T'is true. Strugglin' to see a way nae here-bouts."

"Ye figger," Natji added. "Figger trust Jabbey too much?"

A long pause, and the goblin's answer was weak. "Aye."

"So," Natji concluded. "We gonna die. Again."

"So we gonna die," Grekthrope conceded.

"Glad we clear thae up," Natji said.

"T'was a good talk," Grekthrope agreed offhand. Squirmed and resettled on his bonds and decided to again reroute the conversation to a lighter path. "So what them cows sayin' now?"

"Kodo stuff," the human replied.

"What sort?" the goblin persisted.

"Um," the Lost Pup canted his head. Answered with, "figgerin' the color oh kodos to use."

"Rally?" Grekthrope asked dubiously.

"Rally yeah," Natji affirmed.

A flurry anew of motion around the vibrant firepit sunk central in the tribal gather. Grim nods of heavy, maned heads. The activity further agitated the muss of semi-symbiote flies set far more attentive than any palpable evidence of godly concerns. A cloud of gnats, a skin of Firewater and a mutter of prayer, any else was optional to tauren ways.

"And now?" Grekthrope prompted.

"Gray for me, pink for ye," Natji noted dismissively.

"Oh," said Grekthrope. "Pretty."

Another rush of rumbled exchange and the agitated tauren made hazily attuned motions at the blaze. Threw back on skins of their potent home-brewed liquor in yet another powerful celebration of divine guidance. Bloodhoof Village produce tended to be very spiritual in nature-be it devout prayers or their infamous Mulgore Firewater.

"So?" Grekthrope prodded the human's typical silence.

"Gonna let ye go," Natji piqued. "T'ain't nae pink kodos."

"Rally?" the goblin perked and peered hopeful at the muckety-mucks.

"Rally? Nae," Natji reported. "RALLY figgerin' to invite the 'Mothers from the birthin' plains…' Somefin 'bout 'oats and sewin'," he concluded with a vague curiosity around the phrases. "Nae sure all they meanin'."

"Tell me," Grekthrope frowned. Quizzed, "Tell again. What the kodos for?"

"Killin' us," Natji replied.

Grekthrope cleared his throat and kicked his human's foot.

"Ugh," The human slumped. "They gonna," he explained impatiently. "Gonna tie us to two kodos. Each," he mumbled thoughtfully.

"Hum. I wonder." the goblin prompted. "To what end?"

"Both ends, I think," Natji guessed, surly. "Make them kodos run away..." he started.

"So go back to both ends-" the goblin interrupted.

"Boss," Natji asserted with a groan. "Gonna tear our legs and arms off. How many ways ye gotta hear it? Din't want us villains get a rez."

"Nae wanna rez," the goblin observed. "Nae without me arms and legs."

"Aye," the human agreed. "Nae much to do like thae."

So passed a somber moment punctuated by the rumble of Elder tauren and snaps from the multiple firepits.

"Eh," Grekthrope huffed positive. "We could roll 'round Steamwheedle... deliverin' messages 'n stuff in our mouths."

A pause and the scaffold shook. "T'is funny boss," Natji judged in approval.

"So," Grekthrope insisted with a grunt, "why nae chop our fuggin heads off?"

The human weighed the thought a breath. "I dunno," Natji tipped his head. "Theys all pretty drunk. 'Sides, ye made me ask'em bout thae," he recalled. "Twice. They dinnae take such kindly."

"T'was worth a shot," the goblin mulled.

One of the acolytes snapped awake, stomped over and glowered down. "Shut off the imp-talk!" the bulk thundered and thudded a hoof into the human's ribs. Glared a breath before a turn to rejoin his mates. "Fuggin' slavers," the tauren mumbled.

"Heh," Grekthrope laughed. "Chick eater. Carrion fodder."

"Yoke brain," Natji wheezed and slumped on his bonds. "Low roller. Ground mush."

The guard had paused just short of return to his comrades. Squinted over his shoulder and threatened to reverse his course yet again. "What with all the bird calls?" he quizzed.

"Whaddia expect?" A fellow acolyte waved dismissively over her splay of cards. "They crazy as water seekers," she growled and impatiently kicked the vacant seat out from the table. The curious guard shrugged and moved to sit. Frowned back as the two prisoners snickered between themselves. A renewal of activity from the fireside rated a thoughtful glare and he settled on a return to the game unwiser and rushed his hand.

So passed a relative quiet span of Elder prayer, acolyte games and a few tentative snores from Natji. Grekthrope spent the time in consideration of other ways to possibly suggest a beheading over… whatever the fuggin' hicks planned to do with the kodos and his limbs.

A tauren holy-roller, clasped a set of beads and a hoof-full of pollen, staggered up to the condemned and baso jabbered in a pious manner. Sprinkled the duo with ceremonial offerings. Shook a proud mane, agitated his halo of tiny insects arace frantic among the dust motes in dashes of midmorn sunlight from the wigwam flap. The tauren Elder lifted his burly arms skyward draped of beads and leather. Grekthrope skeptically eyed the rural splendor and the Lost Pup failed to even stir.

Seen the ceremony enacted, two guards grudgingly abandoned their game to stand near.

"What thae pretty fogie want?" Grekthrope asked. He wrinkled his nose and tried to lean away from the massive biped. The nearest guard reached around the muckety and thwapped the goblin with his crop for good measure. When there was no timely reply from his human, the goblin jerked his hips to shake the scaffold. Grekthrope repeated himself when he felt Natji's sleepy, angry glare. "Thae here clown... what he want?"

A smack of lips and a moment of silent speculation. "Say we best prepare," the human craned his neck. "Say 'sorry bout the put-down-method but nae do it afore.'" The Lost Pup smiled up at the tauren medicine man and nodded amicably. "He wanna adopt ye for his daughter's pet... uh monkeese," he added.

"Heh say what?" Grekthrope hissed.

"So I," Natji shrugged, a motion lost on his predicament. "Kinda fibbed the last part. Said a bunch oh names. Some sorta prayer."

"Prob'bly for his kid's monkey," Grekthrope moped.

"May't jist be," Natji agreed. "But afore he say'in his kid hooked on Murloc Bloom," his dimple twitched. "So prob'ly nae rally too sorry."

Natji's guard craned to repeat his kick but stopped dead as the Elder came about and barked a sermon of instructions. The remainder of retainers laconically dropped their cards and mugs and moved to join the procession. A burst of instruction prompted and so leant in, huge tauren acolytes worked to move the criminals from the scaffold to the next stage of the Elders' master plan of execution.

* * *

The Bloodhoof Village Elder's acolytes bellowed announcement to the listless witnesses: Human and goblin were prepared to die. As instructed briskly waved the bored wander of tauren commonfolk back toward the gallows ground designated beside the kodo pens gate. No one was actually concerned with the criminals' emotional composure... but the awkward process necessary to tie them between confused kodo pairs had taken an hour and the crowd had become antsy. Indeed, the idea had been made far simpler in theory knelt around the sacred fire under the spiritual influence of much Mulgore Firewater. The guards had relayed a simple fact for the benefit of the witnesses' continued patience once the right knots and lengths had been mulled out by frustrated and previously unconsulted kodo wranglers.

As far as Natji and Grekthrope were concerned things were just ducky.

The goblin jerked his head away from the kodo's rank breath. "T'ain't thae a spettickle," He mused, tied leg-and-arm horizontally between the horns of his two bestial instruments of execution. He had to ration strength to hold his head upright. "Nae wonder Murloc Bloom sells so good here 'bouts. Need somethin' to do, I say."

The Lost Pup strained and tilted his head to sidelong consider the goblin. Impossible; he was tied in much the same manner between two more kodos but faced earthward. His longer arms did give him better respite from samples of the pack animal's rotten hygiene. "Sorry we put'em out," the human repeated with little enthusiasm.

"Och! Here they come," the goblin grimaced.

"Have ye any last words, slavers?" the nearest guard rumbled.

"Last words?" Natji translated to Goblitesh.

"Sure, yeah," The goblin thought a moment. "The kid thing," Grekthrope decided with a shrug.

"How many?" The human asked with discreet Arakkoan.

"Eh, make it three this time," the goblin replied in kind.

"Tauren big on kids," Natji noted. "Three t'is." He twisted about until he caught the eye of the surly guard. Proclaimed in his most solemn Tarahe, "Proud folk! I shout sorrow for me wrongs. Me herd-mate." Natji jerked his head in Grekthrope's general direction and added, "me pal think all ye fillies got real pretty udders. He wondering where ye bulls dun got off to." Snickered at the glare of the afronted guard. Rasped a lungful as he was awarded another wallop for his trouble.

A huff of indignation and a partner acolyte rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. Repeated Natji's ode the for the Elders' benefit. A stir worked through the crowd as the nearest overheard and passed on the sentiments. A curve of bovine countenances turned maternal ire on the small green criminal, stepped in. The Elders quickly bemoaned the audacity and begged for calm and the mob held off with grumbles and snorts.

"Made… me a tad… oh impression… eh?" Grekthrope coughed hopefully between lashes of his guard's strap.

"Hum," Natji groaned, strained to see. He stopped and squinted, turned an ear skyward. Was jerked back as the kodos found the goblin's punishment a cause for alarm, sidestepped and stirred wary of the guard's whip. The human grunted, made eye contact with the beast at his arms, murmured noises of sooth. Spoke gently to the giant scaled head. "Thar. Thar. T'is a good girl," the human eased.

Grekthrope twisted about. "Thae a girl kodo?" he asked.

"Aye," Natji rested his head as the beasts calmed. "All girl kodos," he replied astutely.

Grekthrope considered the thick jejunity over his arms. Winced from another blast of foul breath. Sagged on the ropes. "Fuggin' figgers," he mumbled.

"Be o'er quick," muttered Natji. "Them tauren be right piss't at ye."

"Figgered as much," Grekthrope showed filed teeth. "Thanks thae. Thrice-damn Pup."

"I dinnae do nuthin'," Natji protested weakly. "Theys already worked up, nae so much fer the murder and Murloc Bloom." He glared about the procession. "Sayin' Steamwheedle be 'slavers' 'n all thae. Somethin' 'bout Gimetootles or Grimtitties or somethin'," he rushed out.

"I dinnae a clue 'bout all thae," Grekthrope growled.

"Cause Steamwheedle nae slavers," Natji concluded poignantly.

"Only the penals," the goblin reminded him. "Oops, here it come," he warned.

The much heralded and delayed moment had arrived. Chief and consequently the gaudiest of the Elder tauren stepped up and raised a hoof in an elegant motion of somber command.

The wranglers nodded in compliance. Nudged crops to the kodos tied to the arms of the condemned criminals. The crowd became rapt in silence and peered on with stately observance. Children grasped adult sleeves and shirt tails, wide eyed. Folk leant in with a spar of elbows for their neighbors, afeared to miss a single moment of the pageant.

And the kodos moved, chose to interpret the boggle of confused commands in a very kodo fashion. The beasts marched in unison, the animals attached to victims' heads-end trundled in forward motion. The kodos with the legs of the condemned secured to their horns stepped back gingerly. The well-adjusted kodo pairs were most careful not to damage the obviously delicate packages that squirmed, tied between them. The wranglers had stood upright despite, held their hooves to the display with a feigned assuredness. The less apt villagers applauded with vague and uneven uncertainty-in the tauren method which had the applaudit stamp the ground with a single hoof. An increased number hid laughter behind upraised arms as the parade staggered awkwardly on. Children blinked, asked difficult questions and were mostly chided to silence. Natji's head-end kodo gave the hunter an affectionate snort and amorous nudge with her nose.

"Dinnae think t'was how all meant to go," Grekthrope speculated.

"Hum," Natji agreed. "Easy girl," he soothed.

"Huh?" the goblin squinted.

"Talkin' to the kodo," the hunter explained.

"Oh," Grekthrope affirmed.

The Elder outcry after that point required little translation and the kodo handlers' pleasure fell in stages to artful frowns of confusion. They stepped up and held their kodos in place and boggled innocently at the perturbation of their village leadership. The leaders sagged and talked amongst themselves in a most plebeian manner. Eventually a minor from among the Elders waved an acolyte in and expounded a quick set of instructions to the nod of his guard. The acolyte stepped back with a low bow, turned on a heel and stomped into the midst of the wranglers. Drew his fellow tauren into a shoulder-to-shoulder huddle. Hooves articulated complex concepts between them. Many curses were stifled, failed to pass beyond an appropriate immediate vicinity of the educational assemblage. Through the rail fence unemployed kodos held up from lazy turf pennace in serene curiosity, met doe-eyed and none-the-wiser by their strangely-tasked fellows outside the pen.

"Looks they gonna get thae sorted," Grekthrope commented.

"Dunno," Natji figured. "Boss-guard kinda dense. Ack!"

Natji's head-end kodo had just affectionately licked the human's face.

Finally the wranglers stood off with motions of promised absorption. They bowed to the guard. The guard bowed across the field to the Elders, who gestured an artless impatience to proceed. The wranglers collected at their designated kodos. Again the most colorful prime tauren lifted his arm skyward. Crops tapped burly hides.

This time the kodo pairs made wide wary circles, swayed in a sideways-synchronized gait that kept the condemned harmless in the center of their orbits. This time the audience was less restrained in their amusement. Parents took cruel apparent glee in detailed description of the exact nature of the comedy arrayed on the gallows ground to their youth. The effect was an overall jubilant rumble. The Elders gaped for a breath, broke the tableau with gazes skyward or hid their faces behind a spread of hoof. Naturally the latest disappointment demanded a fresh consultation round of the Firewater skins demanded from eager nearby retainers.

"T'was too generous. Nae amateurs," Grekthrope gruffed with a bemused glare. "These fogies be idiots."

"Hope git sorted," Natji mumbled on the cusp of a sigh. "Gitten hungry."

The latest attempt to relay instructions through the ranks of tauren had quickly degraded to a burst of shouts and a flails. A well-meant acolyte had just escalated the emotions with a timely thwap of his whip across the backside of a particularly recalcitrant wrangler.

"Kinda funny to see'em go at it," the goblin judged whimsically.

The human nodded. A sudden start and Natji jerked an ear skyward, squinted concentration. "Draka's tits," the Lost Pup hissed. "Somefin' BIG comin' in from up north," he reported in Goblitesh.

The kodos, as one, shuffled nervously and too cast dull concerns skyward to a hint, a distant echo of change. A dull drone in rapid approach and volume escalated until even the most obtuse of locals or angrily engaged officials took pause and craned eyes aloft to the incursion of mechanical mumble, motors, and a dark speck in the blue loomed swiftly into a wide raptor hulk. Trailed a tangled tail of misty corkscrews, propeller-driven contrails curved a path from a Northish horizon of cloudy peaks and cliffs.

A big day for Mulgore, indeed. Calves pointed and jabbered as adults gaped. Acolytes gripped at hilts on hips and spread out warilly. The dumbfounded Elders traced the course of the incursion with a saucer of eyes. Kodos stomped and coughed as a artificial crescendo descended, and the mechanism blitzed over the village at flagpole height.

The goblin-built flying machine was an unlikely, unlovely, winged spiderwork of struts and many engines bolted on about thirty feet of cigar fuselage of riveted drab metal skin and a row of crystalline portals. Rattles, sputters, in a stately lumber from the direction of Thunder Bluff, the giant flyer soared in, banked over the eastern grist mills and left a wide curve of oily smoke. The mighty wingspan cast a moment's eclipse of the Bloodhoof courtyard heralded by mewls and stamps of kodo concern. A sputter of backfires as the pilot starved the motors and the flyer thumped to a grass-beaten touchdown. Prairie wildlife howled and scattered as the behemoth skidded to a stop across the shimmer sparkle lake that bordered the northern village green. A tiny orb of leather poked from the top of the fuselage and the goblin pilot lifted his goggles. Scrutinized the village mob a few moments before he talked into his vox with a dip of chin. Listened, nodded, left the motors spun up settled back to rest his eyes.

"Jabbey sent the thrice damn FLYER?" Grekthrope spouted in astonishment.

Natji's retort lacked lucidity, volume and subjectivity. He twisted in his bonds fruitlessly to share in the visage. The village folk goggled, shuffled and murmured in concert. Children gasped and tittered, made hectic queries and bounced in excitement.

A wonder to the rural tauren... not so well-received by their pack animals.

Kodos were indeed simple beasts whose walnut-sized brains efficiently parsed input into the skittish variables of herd instinct and oft acted in deference to their enormous size. The massive goblin machine was loud, therefore a Bad. T'was big so therefore a Big Bad. An airborne menace? Very Bad. Conclusion: Very Big Bad. Very Big Bad neatly fit the patterns of most stimuli the herd did not wish to suffer and set still. Had they ample imagination the kodos might have mistook the particular Very Big Bad for a dragon. Dragons ate kodos, dragons made grass burn. Dragons were too Very Big Bad. A particularly loud backfire and shower of sparks from the phenomenon settled the matter and the kodos made near to riot, stomped about, butted against post rail, chomped at their bits and tugged at restraints.

Natji winced and Grekthrope swore. The animals at their head and feet balked to handlers resistance, tossed massive heads and threatened to stampede. Such did not bode well for fettered limbs, which bode even worse for the fettered limb owners. Natji called upon the boundless resources of his recent Hunter education and asserted firm quiet reassurance on the beasts as he'd done before. He augmented with accolades to the harried handlers' impressive skills and exuded goodwill. Grekthrope in turn responded to the predicament with steadfast goblin bravado: He bawled and begged for liquor in Common. Cursed the dirty kodos and the imbecile wranglers in Goblitesh.

The moment passed, eventually, as firm hands and the thwap of whips set the animals to a grudged right. A slap of leather brace across the goblin's chest hinted that the handler nearest might had had a glimmer of Goblitesh in her vocabulary. None seemed particularly concerned that they'd aborted what was, in effect, the primary intention of the execution pageant.

A hatch hinged and slammed down from the flyer fuselage midriff, so exposed a glimpse of metal ribs and jump seats in a slash of sunlight inside the ovoid cavity. So deployed the hatch made a short ramp to the ground. Such accomodated the exit of an impressively adorned goblin and his escort of two grim troll bodyguards from the flyer. Lastly each troll dragged chain leads attached to the shackled wrists of a pair of hooded humanoids, one tall and one short. The goblin palmed a whip of vestments at his chest with one manicured paw, waved his escort on with the other and they ducked through the tumult of propeller wash. A dash to keep up, his guards tugged on their chains and the captives stumbled blindly behind. The newcomers pushed through the grasses onto the Overland Trail and paused. The trolls checked the goblin and themselves for debris and pestilence, any lavish clothing out of place. Rechecked the humanoids' fetters. A signal from the goblin and the quintet took up a confident march toward the village. Eventually they thumped across the bridge into Bloodhoof with stoic and unhurried strides.

"May't nae be dead again?" Natji suggested.

"We may't nae be dead," Grekthrope agreed.

Between his twin towers of stern troll the diminutive green leader nodded curt greetings and spoke compliments to the boggle of tauren guards as they passed the gates. The nonplussed crowd parted warily to allow the newcomers an approach to the Elders struck silent before the improvisational and so-far-abortive gallows.

"Looks like he pulled all the best pimp," Grekthrope observed idly.

Natji struggled to see. "Who came?" he bid breathless.

A blink. "T'is Warchief Thrall," the goblin declared.

"Rally?" blurted the human.

"Rally nae," Grekthrope exclaimed. "T'is Jabbey 'n the Twins! Fuggin' gods are with us today," he whistled.

"Jabbey HERE?" Natji grunted. He lifted an incredulous brow. "Them gods best git outa the way."

Resplendent, Jabbey bowed low and heralded the grand taurens with solemnity. Talked as quickly as Taurahe could be managed. Not well. The newcomer's accent and grammar made the language an assault on even Natji's ears. The human quickly took in the situation. Translated for the sake of Grekthrope and shouted his corrections for the sake of their lives.

"Ye know who I be?" Jabbey held his hands outward in a standard gesture of peaceful approach. Met by a scatter of mumbles and other commentary among the throngs, mostly seemed to indicate a positive response. Acolytes and wranglers glanced among themselves. The foremost Elder nodded surly acknowledgement. ("They dun gotcha," Natji interjected.)

This earned an angelic smile. "Alas me good folk!" cried Jabbey. "We of the esteemed Steamwheedle Cartel beg ye Plains Dwellers don't cook (kill) me treasured vegetables (heroes) with mistake," the goblin boss said. "For grape pasta (good relations) I lift up the real weasels to ye..."

Jabbey slapped one of his own prisoner's shoulders. The hooded head jerked and the troll tugged the leash tight. The goblin continued with a nod. "Ye falsely accused me herd. The REAL weasels nearly milked the moon (escaped.)"

Jabbey showed his palms, "alas t'was grape crumble (good luck) that me own bulls lifted up the REAL weasels..."

("Caught, uh. Criminals. Uh, w-weasels works I s'pose," Natji stumbled a bit on the correction.)

Jabbey's ear twitched and he vexed at the Lost Pup.

"Hum," Grekthrope huffed. "Dinnae think Jabbey speak Taurahe," he contemplated idly.

"He din't," Natji replied. "Asked me afore we left... I say 'learn from Brenner.'"

"Cooky's helper?" Grekthrope queried. "Din't think he all thae bright. How goes?"

"I'm busy," Natji both explained and complained.

"Ugh," the goblin sagged.

Natji grimly continued his corrections. Still twisted around in futile acrobatics to view the exchange. Twice appeased by the human hunter's soothe, the kodo at his head lent a placid interest and no few ardent prods between dips for more grass.

The goblin boss had managed a renewed smile before he'd carried on. "So loosen me vegetables' (heroes') grass (bindings) and let them frolick back to a herd that loves them!" he asked in humble sincerity and near cryptology. Jabbey flicked his hand at his escort, "I almost lift up backwards (I offer in trade…)"

The goblin's grim bodyguards pushed forward with their own two prisoners. Hoods were flung off to reveal a destitute human and haggard dwarf. Both proposed replacement criminals were thoroughly restrained and almost unrecognizably battered. So stricken they peered pointlessly about with no little trepidation, alas redundantly masked by blindfolds. The wan couple wore wrinkled, poorly-fit cartel tabards not in Steamwheedle colors, smears of red clay still clung to the stained fabric. Though odd for drug dealers who plied their trade in the region of Mulgore, neither villain seemed to understand the languages exchanged. The dwarf did babble a string of Dwarvish which Natji did not bother translate. The human captive appeared to have swallowed a bug.

"Who the fug is they?" Grekthrope asked.

Natji didn't reply and his shrug went unseen.

All was stunned quiet until took in the sight, a particularly observant villager stepped forward and vocalized a reasonable concern in wheaty Low Common (an outrage!) The notion quickly gained some momentum among the witnesses. Folk nodded and the crowd bristled and stepped closer.

"So what if one t'ain't a goblin?!" Jabbey echoed, betrayed a baffled annoyance. "How's thae even matter?" He stomped a foot, turned back to address the Elders. "Am I to be unsexed (disappointed) by Tauren JUSTICE?" He emphasized the word for justice, he hoped. "Here be ye REAL uh, drug dealers," Jabbey had interjected the Orcish words for the subject.

("Sellers of bad fruit to the naive for profit," Natji attempted correction. Improvised.)

"They know Orcish I say!" Jabbey scowled back in Low Common. "How do you say 'kids?'" he asked more quietly.

("Calves," Natji said the Taurahe word.)

The boss sighed, repainted his smile grandly and finished with, "What know how many who ye calves Steamwheedle Cartel's most grape vegetables (heroes) have saved with this pretty grape sauce (heroic mission.)"

"Boss," Natji groaned quietly. "Per'aps I shoul-"

"Shut it," Jabbey sneered proudly.

The human sighed and sagged on his bonds, marked the moment as familiar.

"Ahem," a cough. Recovered his poise the Steamwheedle boss bowed low, held empty hands outright. "I lift up the actual, uh... sellers-of-bad-fruits-to-the-naive-for-profit and I mayhaps lift up backwards (trade) for my tasty vegeta-heroes."

He showed his palms to the Elders. "I trust to ye (untranslatable- proud?) wisdom," the goblin covered his heart with a spindly manicured claw. "Beg ye bring this matter to a flatulent justice," he ducked in a motion of somber pledge.

Long moments of thoughtful silence held pregnant. Finally a break in the tableau as a child screeched a query in naive demand to an momentarily inattentive parent. The audacity rated a hushed lightning reprimand and corrall of the offender youth against petticoats.

("Who's the pretty frog?" Natji translated dutifully and nearly choked.)

For his part, Jabbey responded with naught but a stately blink and only a slight shuffle.

The outburst brought the Elders back to life. Begun was a renewed round of discussion among the tauren leadership, backs turned. A few titters of nervous laughter from the crowd over a general rumble of dozens of quiet conversations. Tails whipped and manes shook. Hooves pointed, ears twitched. Insects buzzed their own tiny drama over the discussion. An impasse, a bellow of nonplussed rage. One outspoken Elder broke away from the Eldership and stomped off toward the main teepee with a wave of arms, a glare and a curse.

("Fools," Natji translated, blind to the goings on. "Smellin' of digested grass.")

"Gettin' somewhere eh?" Jabbey's brows lifted to the human. The boss goblin beamed back at the villagers, pursed his lips and rolled on his heels as he waited.

Grekthrope shrugged, "always gotta be somewhere."

The bigwigs haggled back and forth in their hectic scrum. A break to respond to more challenge and the majority waved to dismiss the exile and his tantrum. Huddled anew, continued the discussion. Their manner seemed mostly favorable and the dissenter had ducked in a huff into the main wigwam.

"Hey," Natji strained at his bonds. Nodded at the beast that demurely chewed cud over his arms. "Tauren sell here kodo trained fer mounts?"

He couldn't see the mildly dubious blinks of his compatriots.

"Ye cannae afford'em," Jabbey chided in Goblitesh. "'Sides, ye cannae ride."

"Dinnae ye want a fuggin' mechanostrider?" Grekthrope frowned, nose wrinkled. "T'is all ye go on about. Now ye want one of these fleabags?" He sneezed and held up, tensed wide-eyed as his kodos stirred. His head-end beast blinked tranquility with a grind of flat teeth. "Still," the restrained goblin managed. "Nice enough fleabags I 'spose," he admitted.

The wranglers and acolytes had failed to notice caught up with the Elders' drama.

The Lost Pup let his head drop. "Gotta understand th'beast," he muttered.

Finally the Elders nodded and stepped back. Turned and gestured animatedly. Jabbey twisted up a toothy grin to his vassals. Hiked up his gall and waltzed into the Elder midst. Blinked at, but eventually threw back on, an offered skin of Firewater. The goblin gagged, coughed a most humble thanks to the mountain of tauren that surrounded him. Recovered. Spoke quickly. After long minutes of doubtless awkward pleasantries (without Natji's assistance) the goblin again separated. He approached his imperiled folk triumphantly. Took a moment to grace the kodo handlers a regal and offhand goodwill.

"Hey Pup," the boss goblin whispered, leant close to Natji. "How I best say 'nae on the goblin but we got wiggle with the human?'" he asked earnestly.

The human in question glared. "By ye-self," he growled and jerked at his bonds.

Jabbey knelt closer. "Oh come on! These be delicate negotiations," the boss soothed. "Trust me," he concluded with a quirky smile and a pat of Natji's head.

The Lost Pup just glared to the trampled earth an arm's length below his nose.

"Trust me, Pup," Jabbey reassured into his ear. "Unless ye got better prospects."

"Slavers," the nearest guard barked and stamped a hoof. "The fug with all the gob talk?" the brute demanded and held the ball of his crop under Natji's chin. "Slaver secrets huh?"

Jabbey glowered at the affront.

The human sighed and translated the proper phrase to his boss while so directed to the tauren's confounded glower. Natji peered up the rod to the acolyte at the far end and he smirked. Nudged his shoulder toward the gilded goblin. "The frog dun say ye Elders be delicate," he denoted innocently.

His dimple twitched as his chin fell instantly released of the disciplinary brace.

A roar of indignation and the brute's whip cracked down between Jabbey's ears. The boss goblin hissed, hid his cringe under a cross of arms. Jabbey's bodyguards jumped awake, swept forward hands poised on hilt and pistol grip, set to murder. The potential disaster of troll escalation was forgone by but a grunt and timely lift of palm from the assaulted boss. A stunned moment of silence from witness and player alike. Recovered first, the Elders bawled wide-eyed outrage at the baffled guard. Jabbey smarted and further waved his trolls down. Dramatically rubbed at his scalp as he again stooped to Natji. He mumbled in ersatz of the requested phrase.

("Say human," Natji suggested evenly in Taurahe. "Nae pork," the human emended.) Across the grounds the Elders waved at the goblin boss enthusiastically. Jabbey nodded, repeated the word and spun on his heel, made his way back with a wary glance at the vicious acolyte. A frustrated show of palms at his Elders, a sag, and the guard stomped in retreat. Stood to, arms akimbo, beside his partner. Both glared down at the prisoners and grumbled anew.

Again the goblin boss met with the Elders with a splay of hand and an artistic caress of his recently injured pride. Again long snouts nodded and lips were a blur. Eventually there was a flurry of hand-to-palm gestures and, of course, another round of the Firewater skin. Again Jabbey wheezed, this time doubled over as the Elders stood in a mildly concerned circle. A curt signal as he recovered and his trolls marched in, gave up their leashed wards to the Elder's escort with a bow. The boss goblin returned to his vassals, smiled broadly. Stopped before the nearest wrangler and waggled his finger pleasantly toward the exonerated. "Cut'em loose," he requested amicably.

The kodo handlers milled about in uncertainty as the lead wrangler made a face. Jabbey tapped his foot, graced balmy an expectant smile, arms neutrally akimbo. The wranglers squinted and vexed back unmoved as the prime kodo handler slipped a helpless glance to his leadership. An annoyed nonverbal from an impatient Elder set the matter straight and the wranglers snapped to, dutifully ducked and grumbled. Approached the exonerated and leant in. Made commendable attempts to untie the knots, sputtered and cursed as they fumbled. Eventually a knife swipe severed Natji's bonds. The human caught himself on his hands and wavered upright.

Made and stood to the gilded goblin's side unsteadily. "Boss Jabbey," Natji acknowledged as he rubbed his wrists, kicked life into his legs. Jabbey smiled angelically.

Grekthrope struggled and cursed as tribesmen worked to release him. Hit the ground hard. Shook his head clear and also stumbled bloodlessly alongside the boss, "hey boss."

"Shush. Play along," Jabbey muttered to the duo at his side. "Gotta keep good rep with these hicks," said as he lifted Natji and Grekthrope's hands in his. Stood tip-toed and announced in confident Tarahe, "My veget- heroes are lifted up (saved!)" Dropped and he bowed again, pulled his cohorts with him. "The Steamwheedle Cartel thanks a sexy, sloppy stew (proud, wise folk.)"

A rumble of uncertain cheer came up from the witnesses. Gained momentum as Jabbey again lifted his arms high, still clasped his two exonerated cohorts' hands. Aside glared at his bodyguards expectantly. The Twins blinked... and curtseyed. Grekthrope nudged Natji and the two waved numbly. Impressed by the pageantry the crowd responded. Tauren hooves pounded the earth, dust rose. The crowd had indeed been bored. The Elders shuffled uncomfortably and looked on with only a slight roll of the eye.

So caught in the glorious moment the Steamwheedle Boss proclaimed loudly, "Me hereby beg holy worms drink someone's calves bury over sexy dirt. Burn quaintly!" Grinned proudly as his last syllable echoed through the village.

Echoed, because the tauren masses had froze and stared back in stunned silence.

"I ask the Gods gift ye offspring with fertile grasslands under plentiful rain and a peaceful sun!" Natji corrected with the common blessing. Vehemently.

The crowd nodded and there were a lot of "ohs."

"Hmm," Jabbey winced.

"Brenner t'was from Orgrimmar..." Natji started to explain but his voice faded. Quieted and darkened, his eyes slid sidelong.

The tauren shuffled and murmured, looked to a trumpet of defiance. The self-exiled Elder glared from the main teepee, had gathered a small entourage. All armed. The recently exonerated, the cartel leader and his escort noted the aggressors with some sharp concern. The unsatisfied tauren minority glowered at the Cartel folk and advanced with an evident fail of restraint. The appeased Elders rushed forward, hooves raised, gobbled of peace and good fortune. Strategically placed themselves in the path of and checked the irate approach.

"Git to the fuggin' plane. Quick," Jabbey bitched discreetly in prison-whisper Goblitesh. Grabbed his folk by the elbow and nudged his chin to his bodyguard. "Nae TOO quick." The Steamwheedle quintet slipped away, dared not to rush. Gave no little effort to force an unruffled manner. Eased only slightly as they passed the gates and the steely gaze of tauren guards unmolested. Unhappily the Twins held hands to hilts at the rear as the parade clumped across the bridge toward the flyer.

Jabbey made a point not to look back in their path. Took a deep breath. "Sorry. Late," he said idly, "should been this mornin'." He shrugged, "but gettin' the flyer clean't."

"Dinnae think e'er be ye come," Natji admitted.

"T'was a risk aye," Jabbey admitted. "Fuggin' Regolt still at large. No fuss. I'll flush the bastard out," he assured the duo.

The human slipped a dark glance sidelong to the Steamwheedle boss. Such went unnoticed and he stayed silent. Grekthrope beamed.

"By the by," Jabbey added. Lifted a brow to the Pup.

Natji snapped into a pantomime of loyal, respectful heed.

"I dinnae 'preciate gettin' me skull thumped," Jabbey griped. "Dockin' ye for that."

"Worth the eggs," Natji mumbled in Arakkoan.

"Fast wing funny," his goblin cohort tittered at his side.

"What's that?" Jabbey menaced, slowed his pace before them.

"Said, 'sorry' he did," Grekthrope interceded quickly.

"Sure he did," the boss sneered unconvinced. "Ye both-"

"On the subject," Grekthrope asserted, again in haste. "I wanna file a complaint."

"Eh," Jabbey recovered his pace, turned away. Habitually painted a rictus altruism. "Ye opinions be important to us," he promised.

"Them lawyers," Grekthrope continued, "them Orcs be useless. Got the thrice-damn cows to murderin' us. Bolted quick as harpies they did."

"All part of the plan," Jabbey reassured him. "Them Orcs performed adequately."

"Bid us death and dun run off?" Grekthrope persisted, incredulous. "Save we asses ye paid'em for... and hold up the proceedin's 'till rescue come!"

"Nae quite," the boss explained, patted the air. "I realized some Venture Coe villains hadda get the axe. In public. Else someone might figger things out. Situation changed."

"Buried them Venture Coe pushers," Natji noted. "Who them folk?" he nudged a shoulder at the village in their wake. "And why them tauren callin' us 'slavers' all sudden?"

"We killed them Venture dealers," Grekthrope clarified. "On the first day. Them tauren rally right piss't... even afore Natji started talkin' 'bout them womenfolk," he explained thoughtfully. "Seemed to think we slavin' out someone called Grimetootems." He eyed Natji for reassurance. His human nodded.

"Grimtotems. Heh. Ye gonna love this," Jabbey grinned, "I dun killt two… nae, six birds with one stone."

The two fixers glared dubiously.

"Them two replacements be from some Alliance Guild… be couriers," Jabbey chortled wickedly. "Them guild bosses needed them carry some relics back East. Too damn important for the Griffs I 'spose. So I stepped up to help them out."

"Dinnae look too helped out to me," Natji observed astutely, looked over his shoulder. Verifiably the surly acolytes were still engaged in a vigorous demonstration of Bloodhoof Village hospitality on the newly-acquired replacement condemnants. Assuredly the unconvinced faction was still held up by the Elder majority.

A tsk from the lead goblin. "They din't pay too well," Jabbey explained, "had a change of heart. FAR better use for'em."

The flyer pilot noted the Steamwheedle contingent clear the village, set high throttles and the brawny machine hunkered down against the brakes poised for a minimal takeoff run. A banshee dance of grasses and the lake in frantic ripples fled out from the hurricane of propwash. A swarm of embers from the village bonfires smoky swirled about the local witnesses in blink and swat fascination on the newest exhibition of justified brutality and leadership drama.

"Okay," Grekthrope grudged. "But them lawyer folk get got away with a half-ass… naw, thrice-damned kobold cluster of a job," he insisted.

"They weren't nae REAL lawyers," Jabbey corrected. "Orcs t'was from Camp Mojache on the hunt for the very-same dusty relics… outa Feralas. Jist a couple hunters. Them Alliance guildies carryin' some mighty interestin' relics 'seems."

"Dinnae make sense," the Lost Pup complained.

"I follow," Grekthrope elbowed his human, "I'll 'splain after." He nodded to his boss, "Go on."

"So I told them Hordies the relics-scrolls they was-be theirs... if they dun me a little favor," Jabbey smiled. "Alliance guildies become our new villains. Orcs be the hero lawyers and get their dusty scrolls for they own purpose."

"So ye let'em go," Grekthrope shook his head, exchanged frowns with Natji.

"First class," Jabbey shrugged. "Even gave'em free zeppelin passes to Grom'Gol," he added proudly.

Natji shook his head and swore. Grekthrope betrayed little more pleasure but a tad more patience.

"Oh relax," Jabbey chided. "Had the Iron Eagle pick'em up. Met on the Barrens near where we grabbed them Alliance Couriers." He gave a vicious little laugh. "Ye know the 'Eagle's Sky-Captain owes me for his little domestic SNAFU," he denoted.

Grekthrope blinked. The goblin's nose twitched on the first hints of a Bigger Plan. He tipped his chin, betrayed his curiosity and bade the boss to conclude. Natji, less equipped to detect high-order goblin malfeasance, stayed himself barely mollified and silent.

"Hate loose ends," the Steamwheedle boss went on. "AND I have a mighty concern for the welfare of the endangered Black Nose Dolphin in the Great Sea ye know."

The human and his goblin partner somehow managed perplexity in unison.

Jabbey rolled his eyes at their ignorance. "So I told the Sky-Captain his orc passengers were gonna feed the fishes," he explained. "They nae got to Grom'Gol. Shame."

"These relics... scrolls?" Grekthrope asked hungrilly.

"Eh," Jabbey shrugged. "Tacked up in the Captain's suite on the 'Eagle." The boss made a motion of wide arms. "Guess he thinks they pretty. 'Course I know where they be… jist in case someone rally gonna pay. Sky Captain dinnae read Gnomish no how."

"Gnomish?" Grekthrope prodded. "Gnome-speak from Feralas?"

"Nae a clue," Jabbey admitted evenly. Yawned. "Who cares? Been a long day."

"Busy," Natji groaned. "Whynaw jist give the fuggin orcs to Bloodhoof?"

"Pup, ye a great killer," Jabbey patted the human's arm. "But ye nae an artist like me," he grinned.

The contact between the goblin and human produced an odd change in the nearby prairie. A perpendicular trace of disturbed grass had faintly betrayed a predator at stalk. A bold creature that hunted with a grizzled lack of concern for the ruckus of technology or the advantage of numbers or steel in his prey. At the catalyst of Jabbey's touch the disturbance increased with the predator's ambition and speed, angled in as beast moved to intercept said unawares prey exposed on the Overland path. A whine of bloodlust and crash aside of overgrowth, the bloodthirsty charge of razor hooves and saber tusks. Tiny pitiless eyes locked on the human with a determination of instinct. A snort and sneer bore in, red dust wake rocketed dead-set on the hapless targets.

The two goblins shouted alarm. A troll jerked free a snub-nosed pistol from his tunic as his partner's blade cleared its sheath. Both bodyguards were a sudden shield of armor and grim professional detachment between Jabbey's gape and the unexpected threat.

The fatal charge skidded to a stop inches from Natji's leg. The human seemed relieved, indeed the clicks of his tongue against his cheek had seemed a tad urgent until the boar relented. The human smirked a slightly breathless reassurance to his companions, butted off his gait by a burly nudge for attention by his pet as they moved on.

The beast huffed and sputtered, porcine back end wiggled, the odd corkscrew tail shook. Nosed in and roughly sniffed at the human, a boggle over the confused patina of scents in the sharp, black little eyes. Natji smirked and scratched at the boar's cowlick. The burly beast took up a serine trot, considered the bodyguards' stand-down glares of annoyance with an insolent blithe.

"Ah hah," Jabbey gasped. "Thae the new pet? I hear 'bout'em," he mused. He straightened his ruffled dignity and made a pointed examination of the surly creature, nose wrinkled. Wisely he snatched his hand back from a dart of red-rimmed black glower. "What sorta name t'is Grampose?" the goblin pondered as he verified his digits.

"Jabbey t'was taken," Natji mumbled.

The boss rolled his eyes at the Lost Pup. "Well dismiss the pork chop. Nae pissin' in me flyer. Just clean't ye know." Fretted back as the boar grunted and glared.

The hunter blinked. He clicked his tongue. A kick and huff of beastly indignation and Grampose faded, banished to magick storage. "The flyer?" Natji asked as his unheeded hand prodded at the sudden small bulge grown from his beltline under his tunic.

Grekthrope elbowed against his human. "Thought ye had him under control!" he chided in Arakkoan.

"We still learnin'," Natji shrugged.

"Anything I should know?" Jabbey asked without a turn about.

"Why they," Grektrhope threw a thumb over hs shoulder. "Why they callin' us slavers?" he asked quickly.

"Ah. Gettin' to thae," the boss waved dismissively. Urged up in pace by bodyguard prod the entourage continued toward the flyer. Jabbey peered back to the village. A gold-capped grin split his countenance as he spotted the two exchanged prisoners distantly frogmarched between their hostile tauren escort. "Celebrate me boyos!" he declared. "The Venture Company 'Bloom trade been squashed," he smiled at his two Fixers. "Get me new pushers out here in no time… Take up on the demand. A new franchise and profits for all!"

"Good we inna herd thae loves us," Natji muttered.

"Slavers," Grekthrope reminded them.

"Pish. Ye me best troubleshooters," Jabbey soothed. "Got a nice cushy job in Feralas for ye." He betrayed a moment troubled, "kinda a rush though. Flyin' ye right to the former smugglers' camp. With me old rival Regolt still creeping about, gotta hunker back to the roost soonest."

"Ye rally takin' us flyin'?" the Lost Pup blurted with a perk of rare, honest interest.

"Shuddup Natji... slavin'?" Grekthrope winced at the more poignant concern and waved his human off. "Why we slavers all oh sudden?"

"Jist to Dire Maul," Jabbey murmured offhand. He stopped short of the worst of the propeller wash a few yards shy of the flyer. His bodyguards and the Fixers nearly trampled him, attentions still lingered on their wake. He frowned at their awkward disentanglement.

"Feralas, Dire Maul, Grimtotems, smugglers," he counted and held upright his fingers, punctuated with "slaves" and an upright thumb. His growl grew more aspirated, "smugglers dinnae listen. Too caught up in old scrolls and guildie folk gold." He dropped two fingers. "AND sellin' Grimtotems as slaves," two more fingers folded and the Steamwheedle boss shook his head in artful frustration. "THEN they play loose with MY ports to the 'Maul," he bitched. "Givin' a bunch of pissant guildie fugtards MY SECRET MAGICK," he shrilled and held his thumb prominent. "The "Maul t'is Steamwheedle racket 'cause only I got the ways in and the good guides. We smuggle the 'Maul finds or charge thems who want in. Simple."

Natji and Grekthrope blinked, lifted a brow each and eventually nodded.

The Twins maintained wary swivels alert on the savanna, though one troll rolled his eyes at the outburst and the other just sighed. No doubt Jabbey's bodyguards had heard the tirade repeatedly on the flight overland from the 'Port.

"Grimtotem slaves and 'Maul scrolls," the boss poohed. "Both got the Horde all worked up. I gotta go runnin' all over Azeroth with me arse hangin' out. Tryin' to calm things down." He lifted his chin indignantly. "So why me?" he flagged a finger at his audience.

"Ye dip-lo-ma-tic," Natji replied simply.

Jabbey stared at him.

Grekthrope jabbed his elbow at the human's gut.

Natji shrugged, ducked and shook his head.

Jabbey sighed, lifted his gaze skyward. "Cause my best fixers off fixin' friggin' Murloc Bloom biz that MY predecessor," he spat. "Trade that MY predecessor let slip." He tipped his head. "I assume we ARE done here?"

Grekthrope prodded Natji and both agreed with spirited nods.

"Swell." Steamwheedle's prime goblin let his eyes wander as he cursed under his breath. His glare happened to meet with the eyes of the Twins. His bodyguards gave quick, impatient acknowledgment and returned to a concerned overwatch on the environs at large. Triple digits tapped on hilts.

"As for the slavin'," the boss looked askance. "As ye find out, word gits 'round."

"Grimtotems?" Grekthrope prodded.

"Bah," The boss lifted a brow. "Jist a bunch of tauren who decided fire and the wheel t'was overrated 'bout a dozen or six years ago. Simple life, ye know?" he harrumphed. "I guess Feralas be grade-A basket-weavin' territory to'em…. Anyhoo, Grimtotem folk be thrice-damn protected; a nae-go for the flesh market. Horde touchy 'bout it. Besides themselves ye see, blame all of Steamwheedle for no-no slavin'."

He lifted a hand to corral any comment. "I know ye two not keen on that biz..."

Verily, the countenances he considered were troubled. And surly.

"Steamwheedle nae slavers," Natji grumbled.

"'Cept the penals," Grekthrope denoted with a lift of finger.

"Oh course," Jabbey shrugged, red-faced he patted reassurance in the air between them. Reached out and tugged the duo into a close huddle. "Slavin'. Don't want THAT rep," the boss elaborated. "I dinnae think my smugglers git them ideas all on their ownsies."

Jabbey jabbed a finger at the pair. "Ye two goin' to Feralas. Find me former smugglers' friends. Bury'em deep. Bury'em bloody. Let the rumors fly. Steamwheedle dinnae trade in slaves. Only WE run the 'Maul."

The two Fixers grinned. Grektrhope nodded. "How hard we gotta convince them Grimtotems?"

"Eh. Keep murder to a minimum," Jabbey corrected him. "Jist work some, uh, fear oh gods stuff wit'em. Grimtotems do make them some fine baskets… and trinkets," he added thoughtfully.

Again a response of grinned comprehension.

The boss stood to full gall, upright and beamed, "Fix the slavin'. Fix the Steamwheedle rep. Then jist sit back and run guild folk in Dire Maul on their little escapades. Use MY secret ports." He wagged a finger under their noses. "T'is good money in thae racket. Jist till I find some new suckers-I mean volunteers-for the Dire Maul ops."

"Know naught 'bout Dire Maul," Natji murmured. "Place be rough. Big mana. Big baddies. So we hear." He squinted at a gather of clouds over the distant cliffs on the northwest horizon.

"Ogres up the yin-yang," Grekthrope agreed unhappily. "Demons. Banshees. Hear both Feathermoon n' Mojache crackin' down on smugglin'."

"Pish! Old fart elves and Horde tourists," Jabbey waved a dismissive hand. "No slavin' and things clam right down. 'Sides, we got PREEMO maps and some nice crooked local guides. T'is a cakewalk, all profit... a vacation I say!"

"Women?" Grekthrope ventured hopefully.

Another poignant glance from his bodyguard and Jabbey nodded. A grunt and the boss ushered his entourage toward the flyer hatch. "Nae rally," he admitted offhand as they moved into the propwash. "Oh. Watch them Grimtotems… guess they aggressive xenophobes an' xeno-celibate ta boot."

Grekthrope sagged and groaned.

"Wha thae all mean?" Natji asked at his ear as Jabbey waved off their concerns.

"Nae rally a vacation," Grekthrope tugged at his sleeve and mourned.

The human rolled his eyes and drooped.

"Flyin' ye in," Jabbey announced quickly. "Quickest way in. Plus we wow the local color-a little show of force sure to help ye in ye tasks."

Natji nodded numbly. His hair flailed and he grinned up at the flyer. The massive machine shook of unimaginable energies, coiled down on squat oleo struts to fat wheels buried in the swirl of prairie grasses. He stopped, mesmerized by a blur of the nearest propeller. His nostrils flared under assault of oily dragonbreath.

"Kodos nae gonna like it," Grekthrope griped and slipped an uneasy glance to his human. He took in the boyish wonder and grinned automatically. Grabbed the human's double-looped belt and pulled the Pup along. "What 'bout the Steamwheedle smugglers? They started the mess," he yelled above the tumult.

"Sorry," Jabbey shouted back. "MY fools, MY privilege to fix THEM loose ends," he grinned. Turned on a heel at the ramp. Waved the duo up to the flyer hatch. Signaled his bodyguards with a single curl of finger. Stopped Grekthrope short and cupped his hand at his fixer's ear. "Blacknoses gonna gain some weight this week!" he laughed. At that he turned and trudged up into the fuselage, left Grekthrope to nod his appreciation on the ramp. Steamwheedle's prime goblin disappeared into the womb of darkness, the Twins marched behind him.

Natji followed on the heels of the bodyguard, brushed past Grekthrope. He spared a glance to his partner and his dimple twitched before his eye was drawn by some other hypnotic machine detail. T'was such a rare introspection! Again he was stayed with an unsuppressed ragged grin of boyish wonder. Grekthrope allowed him a heartbeat before he shoved him along. Guided left through the hatch by a crewman, the human awkwardly dropped onto a jumpseat. Head twisted about as he scrunched into the goblin-scale accommodations nested in a corrugate of metal ribs. He found himself sat across from Jabbey, so paused he met the goblin's twist of gratification. He blinked into the dim artificial blue found in the belly of the beast.

"Ye ne'er flew afore," Jabbey shouted.

Natji shook his head.

"He ain't," Grekthrope hollered from the door. "'Cept on griffs," he added with a shrug.

Jabbey beamed. He reached across and patted the human's knee, his hand had materialized from the green-blue murk under a glitter of gold-capped and sharpened teeth, pylon perked ears, a lump of shadow fused with the dark shiver.

Dark skinned, clad in what of his leathers the tauren had allowed him kept in captivity, Natji was but a wiry silhouette hunched into the curve of fuselage. His grin glowed back impossibly wider.

"T'is Steamwheedle, boyo!" The Big Boss proclaimed with a rare twinge of honest pride. The engines coughed and blatted and he snatched a handhold on his seat and leant in. Natji mimicked him and they were near nose-to-nose in the slim fuselage.

The goblin was all gold and gloat as he shouted, "mana-smanna!" He winked. "Fug the ogres AND them flowers kid. The fun JIST begun!" he promised, all teeth and ears.

The Lost Pup stared for a breath. His dimple twitched. A creak of hydraulics and a rip of combustion, the flyer jerked into motion. The human nodded and ducked, craned around and became hopelessly riveted on the prismatic portal over his shoulder.

Grekthrope had tarried just inside the hatch, gripped tight and swayed as yellow and red blurred past the opening. The wail of engines in banshee concert, a staccato of backfires and a stream of black smoke past the ovoid of prairie as the door/ramp scythed grass. A strain of spindly goblin limbs and spine against acceleration. A bounce, a last slam of wheels on the earth and the big ship clawed skyward. The pilot fed a surplus of power through the intakes, t'was no doubt eager as his passengers to see Mulgore put to their wake. A thought, and Grekthrope slipped a sidelong glance. But his human was hopelessly rapt wide eyed and tucked up at a prismatic portal, sky glare in steel blue eyes under a hard brow, a jag of chin and hungry cheeks. A flash of teeth, taught a very goblin smile. Tanned and gaunt, all elbows and knees. The investment had matured raised in years of blood and profit.

Grekthrope grinned. Yep, they were good. Had to be. Steamwheedle's best. T'was one of them moments, he decided and allowed himself thoughts not of profit, but silly emotions. Live forever, he thought for some reason. His gaze fell down on Bloodhoof as they banked over the village center. A glance to sky, a dragon in the distance. A bronze; Rare.

Eventually the goblin was ousted by a crewman's duty to secure the hatch and fell aside to a jumpseat. The goblin mused on unlamented memories and his last visage of thrice-damned Mulgore.

In Bloodhoof Village the hapless replacement villains had been led to the nearest anvil by the laconic Elders in a parade with two grim acolytes took up the rear. Massive two-handed axes held ready in bloodless hands, eyes dark and angry on the necks of a near-panic dwarf and inconsolable human. The condemned had doubtless grown wise as their blindfolds were cast off to saucers of terror and a sputter of useless blather. The wranglers returned their kodos to the corral, shoulders sagged and grudged vigilant with whips wary for any disruption as the flying machine roared away.

"Sure," Grekthrope murmured, unheard over a cacophony of goblin state-of-the-art malfeasance. "Now them hicks get out the fuggin' axe," he bitched to himself.

Eventually Grekthrope Zang Witx Frong let his head loll, eyes closed tight. Sought shuteye but expected to find ogres and the curse of slavers in his slumber. A particularly sooty hack from an inboard engine and he winced, bloodless gripped his chair frame. He hated air travel: Midair breakups cast broken bodies to a prolonged spiral downward. Victims burned slowly in magick-fused metal heaps. Twisted wretches bled out slow or froze solid trapped in crumpled wreckage smashed on the jagged spears of isolated mountains.

Not at all preferred: To be beheaded was still top of HIS list.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter 1: Different Worlds

The hunter had spent two weeks in the wild to cross the continent on foot and to think things through. Eventually he'd emerged from the Tundrid desolation on a snowbound ledge and squinted at the herculean stoneworks-impressive yet still far across the valley. His destination was a massive nest of spires, walls and turrets that crowned, garbed and humbled the largest of the Khaz mountains. A brood of colossal gray gild, line, curve and angle grown from natural rock, a titan sprawl that ringed and climbed the slopes and cliffs. A monumental cancer of mortal works that wormed inside from base to peak and had spread to much of the neighbor range.

Draconian scale at distance made aphids of the multitudinous beings who trudged the mile or more of curved earthen and flagstone ramp toward and from the city gates. Magicks dazzle flared in purposes both morose and spectacular. Thick smoke billowed and curled upwards from the dwarvish braziers. The inevitable vendor enticements tickled the masses. A blend of festival and shivered dirge t'was the hundred-yard-wide thoroughfare that rose gently from poplar treeline and a confluence of vital dwarvish highways. A gray tongue snaked from the maw of the city to the feast of eyes and hearts below and gilded teeth, the gates, ajar over a gaudy flutter of banners in spat of jubilance gathered on the wide plateau atop the epic ramp.

In the sky of constant winter griffons swirled, cawed and nagged, grudged a share of snow-swirl orbits with stranger beasts and machines, their tiger claws swiped and eagle beaks snapped afront at rival avians. A jostle for the next turn at entry through the city skygate into a no-less frantic roost as beings astride tuckered and held on for dear life. Such a crawl of noise and color, ant-like numbers and the entire valley so made artificial and alive, crust to overcast a colorful hectic swarm to and from the stoic stone maws. The hunter stood knee-deep in a drift and gaped, realized how he'd utterly failed to really think things through.

His stomach growled on the hint of windswept succulents promised from a thousand hearths. Grampose, his mostly-tamed boar companion restless at his heel, saw nothing remarkable: HIS immediate view lacked food, enemies or females.

The hunter was better with the abstract so saw all three in droves. He was outward still, but the pang of a bumpkin uncertainty twisted his gut. He was new to cities. The towns and crowds he knew offered but a fraction of the bustle or business of such a place. He was rigid in despair for long heartbeats, jaw slack, eyes wide, stood nerveless and mindless.

But there was assurance. Just numbers, he told himself; folk and the game were the same, he just needed to learn a new multiplicity, a new scale. He was fortified by long days of solitude and a freedom. He'd had his silly thoughts. He WAS ready to rub shoulders with the myriad crush of the city. T'was the same as any place, he decided. He had to get in. He was awake therefore he was hungry. He had to sleep. What was the word Grekthrope had used? Semantics. The numbers were just semantics so a job's a job.

But... Draka's Tits, the place was fuggin' BIG.

The hunter had avoided any major routes on his journey north. Trudged up from schismatic Booty Bay, through jungle-bound Stranglethorn, skirted dank Duskwood. He'd circled the gilded roadblock of Stormwind City and the larger settlements, avoided Elwynn Forest altogether, gave his fellow humans a wide berth. Stayed to the shadows of desolate Deadwind Pass and the wild valleys in Redridge. He'd taken up old paths up into hill and draw at the edge of the cursed Burning Steppes and Searing Gorge, found those regions true worthy of their desperate names. All the while he'd slept rough, poached, trapped and traded to endure. Indeed he'd found a solace in nature. He maintained sparse fraternization with any mortal species, especially his own, fairly certain of his reception otherwise. The diversions cost him dearly in time and effort, a difficult path that also served to dissuade pursuit. Questions.

He'd had fun. He'd thought about things a lot more than was his way before. He'd likened the expedition a vacation perchance, though he wasn't entirely sure such qualified-he'd never been on a vacation before. Before, with Grekthrope, any time off was typically used to train, pursue side-jobs or hunker down for the next investment. But t'was just he-with Grampose and the Arakkoa-now. Different. A different name. He was different. This was HIS investment.

He'd not so much as detected a goblin since the northern jungles. What he did encounter were many humans, dwarves and elves, seen mostly in the forests and villages. A scatter of Hordies; orc and trolls, a trickle of forsaken and tauren about their own outposts or in the vast wilds. And gnomes. He knew little of gnomes, so he'd risked close contact on a few occasions, found the diminutive beings somewhat oblivious and easy to stalk. He'd drawn so close, oft to the very edge of their artificial brilliance, that he could differentiate their copper essences amidst the constants of machine lubricant and mechanical combustion that made up their marvelous lilliputian caravans and encampments. A species that smelled at once of both blood and metal.

Eventually he climbed into the Tundrid Hills, found forgotten dwarvish prospector trails. As forage grew leaner, folk appeared thicker and trailways heartier he'd recognized the near end of his… vacation. T'was true, he could have made the trip in hours on the back of a griffon for a few silvers. Grekthrope had hated griffons but he'd despised raw nature and would have insisted on the faster route. He'd thought about Grekthrope too, mostly just before he slept because those thoughts made him foggy. But now THIS was his horizon. T'was time to play hard.

Different.

Ghim Grundlunder knelt elbow-deep in the drift, scratched at his boar's white-gray cowlick.

Grampose was a scarred hip-high tan wedge of muscle and mean and mostly instinct. His small black eyes cast a snowglare wary regard along his wrinkled hammer snout and framed his human within a curve of ivory. The boar favored an instinctive outlook: Eat, don't eat. Kill, don't kill. Sex, or don't sex. Sleep. Repeat. His human tended to complicate notions. To the beast a time of isolation had been a vacation indeed-compared to the rigors of constant care his human required when amongst his two-legged kind. The signs of so many two-legs promised a dark future of complication and a departure from the comfort of the wilds confounded the beast.

The boar oft reflected on the oddness of their relationship in his own way. Sometimes Grampose entertained a fleeted memory of an unfathomably irrevocable choice not to eat his human. The urge was superseded by the instinct of the singular, frequent coddles and significant reward and so he let such speculation lay dormant. He'd long since trained his human to be a minimally compromised and beneficial burden and as part of his singular. His human was a constant now and that sufficed his instinct. So he suffered the bother even when food, a mate or battle was not apparent. He disliked tall two-legs, fat two-legs, the short loud two-legs and the suspiciously quiet two-legs. He hated friendly two-legs, fleshy ones and the furry ones. He tolerated the taller blue loud ones because they tasted good and never tried to be friendly. He favored the green two-legs because they always feared him and that made perfect sense. He tended not to worry about any other types except as sources of threat or food or fun. His singular had perhaps affected him but still he resisted the human's more antisocial aspects. Not that such made any real sense, but the boar was compelled to endure, such adventure, complication and contradiction. His human could indeed be a pain in the ass.

The human hunter was slim and fit and dark of skin, a red-haired mutt. Tight lipped and slit-eyed, the calluses of a stranger unused to trusted roof and hearth. He knew he was an orphan born and raised low and knew little more and didn't linger. A thick brow furrowed over quick steel blue eyes as he considered another visage of alien wonder, knee-deep in snowdrift from a yet again foreign sky. He'd pulled off the fur-hemmed hood so his rufous locks, grown long and unkempt during his most recent isolation, flailed in the hefty nip of breeze. The tails of his cloak scant moved, mostly frozen rigid. A frayed belt doubled in length around his waist, off-center secured with a plain iron buckle fastened on a hand-augered pinhole, so suspended his curved hilt low on his hip and a succession of varied pouches and kit. A taut angle of beaded strap across his chest secured the weatherproofed firearm to his back.

The faded insignia on his cloak chest and sleeves were inconsequent to him but likely had some regard to the seasoned dwarf corpse he'd scavenged from at the isolated border. So he'd discard the cloak and overboots before he was among any potentially awkward queries. With fortune he could make a cache somewhere at the base of the valley and trim out to all but the essentials before met with the more prosperous trails.

He was careful. Nothing of his armor or manner could seem spectacular. He'd selected fashion and colors that favored certain Northwestern human influences. He wore a believable patina of wander and wear, base selected at the Steamwheedle nest before he'd left and scavenged or traded enroute to supplement. His accents were subtle and ambiguous he knew, but tentatively hinted of origins he wished to at once claim and deny to make believable. Ghim understood and habitually practiced his anonymity… just as Grekthrope had schooled him, just as he had been born into. He putted and slipped a glance to the glow of attention at his knee, took in the spark of silent concern in retort.

"Place is fuggin' BIG," he observed astutely and a tad too loud.

Grampose's ears perked at the sound of the familiar pidgin. A defensive poise, turreted a glance about the woodline as if to verify his was the only witness, returned in a query.

"Dwarfs nae think small," Ghim tried to recall when he'd last heard his own voice in any language-days at least. He tried again. "Humans, elfs 'n gnomes," he proposed. "Din't she say less ogres 'n more flowers?" he recited, exercised a tongue sparsely employed of late.

The boar eyed him and tensed. Snorted. Shivered his pelt and wallowed buried in snow nearly to his jaw. A question.

"Yeah," Ghim sighed. "Side job but we dun promised."

Grampose stared for a breath, unmoved. Glared and huffed again between his tusks.

"Ok, I promised," the human emended with an emphasis on 'I.' "Ye weren't thar." He swept some snow clear of his pet's pelt. "First thin's first, okay?" he assured the beast.

The boar made a surly relent, rubbed his snout in the drift. He sensed his human's emotions and shared them... somewhat. Hunger. Cold. Fear. Grampose ducked and snorted a cloud of reassurance over his tusks. His ample rear quarter rocked. Shook his curly stub tail, the closest to a tailwag he could manage. The snout lifted and nudged at the human's belt.

"Food. Yeah," the human nodded. Caressed the bristled hide. Teased a tone of culture into his voice as he said, "pardon me senor. Ye got some Dwarf Mild Cheese?" Ghim waved dismissively at an imagined audience. "Much obliged." He framed his boar's chunky countenance with his arms. "Oh, Grampose? Me pal good... he jist ate ye cat," he smirked. Increased his embrace about the rumor of a scruffy neck. The human didn't have many pals.

Held as such for a few breaths until the boar's ears perked. Ghim's head tipped skyward and he jerked upright. Scanned, sought a source of sudden ruckus from above. Such became a crescendo he and the boar ducked instinctively. Both peered up, amazed and alarmed as the trees shed a small storm of gathered snow, needle and bract, beaten free by an abrupt, unnatural downdraft.

A small flying machine-without real wings but apparently lifted by a blurred circle of metal-whined and rattled overhead. Battered the canopy with the turbulence of a remarkably low and rapid passage over the overlook. Dove, sped far below into the valley in an eyeblink. A bank left, then right in apparent indecision before the pilot pushed the craft sideways in an arc away from the dense lines of circled griffons drawn to the city gate. Dared the treeline to skim along the valley floor, darted for the shear cliff walls further down the valley. A blat of consumption and soared upright into a steep climb, stood on a wing and dove behind a crag of snowbound cliffs. Gone, left a trail of exhaust to dissipate memorial on the valley drafts and a thin swirl of acrid gray smoke to settle over the human and his pet with the former debris.

Ghim wrinkled his nose, had seen such machines, he'd even flown in one much larger. Grampose sneezed. The carefree antics of flight made the hunter smile. "I wanna fly too," he grinned, shook off the snow and pine. Grampose did likewise with far grimmer humor. When he again looked up he noted that a snowshower had moved between their vantage and the city. He tipped his nose skyward. The air was thick, the wind dulled to a dour anticipation. Another storm was on the way.

"Welcome to Ironforge," Ghim muttered, hand on hilt, nudged a shoulder to reseat the battered old rifle on its sling. Tugged his hands back into his gloves. Man and beast shared a long thoughtful glance until Ghim nudged his head back toward the trail and the pair turned about to find their way down into the valley.

* * *

The thrice-damned woman was insane, thought Hyrm. The paladin again shoved his considerable dwarf bulk deeper into the flyer's fuselage, wide eyed under his goggles and teeth clenched, fingers white knuckle gripped the rails. Swore, colorfully cursed his duty, the pilot and all gnomes in general for spite. He considered outright commentary but he caught sight of the pilot's particular motions at her controls and his eyes saucered. She wasn't really going to… but she DID and the horizon spun.

A frantic swirl of dusty snow through the mountainous pass, a cough of thrust and the gyrochoppa rolled twice on its long axis. The dwarf's stomach lurched, his nails scratched at the cabin's wooden trim. Had he asked, the pilot would say the stunt was celebration: They had navigated the ash-dry currents above the Searing Gorge and then dodged peaks in the chilled Tundrid Hills. Soared now into familiar Dun Morogh. Hyrm didn't, instead grumbled and recovered some ruffled dignity in his silence, glared at the back of the pilot's helmet.

The ship righted from the aileron roll with the gray eminence of Ironforge aloom through the windscreen. A sharp bank, veered and recentered on the wall of spike cliffs that protected the airfield beyond. Seen as but a blur over the pilot's maniac hunch at the controls. Hyrm turned away quickly from a wicked, goggled smirk she cast over her shoulder.

"Almost home!" the pilot announced, thumb jerked in the air. The wind-whipped gnome dutifully noted the dwarven pallor, his sneer off into the distance. She had absolutely ZED remorse for the discomfort of her passenger or his mortal terror. The effete son of a kobold wouldn't be her cartel escort had he been more careful in his manner around Valen and only half the twit he was. The assignment was a long-term punishment and the harsh physics of proper flight were but an appropriate penalty.

Escort? thought the gnome, the fool could barely escort a mug from bar to table. A thought occurred and again she looked back. "Better keep it low, lots of traffic today!" she announced helpfully. "Wouldn't want to be held up!" she called.

A flash of white under his goggles and a flail of hands as he took in the comment. "Uh Kext… Captain Bling- it's hardly-!" the paladin started to protest. Words failed into a frightened screech and the dwarf ducked his head, again bloodless clasped the rails.

She jammed the stick forward and a blur dazzle of hill and pine landscape filled the windscreen. The gnome dove the ship. Last second jerked out of the dive, banked and followed Gol'Bolar Quarry road at fencepost level. Wildlife and travelers scattered.

My, that wolf has interesting heterochromia, Kext thought. Daydreamt.

Kext Blinglehopper was a gnome born to fly and taught to fight. She loved speed and challenge. She took to the air with a lusty zeal that Hyrm likely reserved for only the Guild's best foods. Kext laughed at the thought: For the journal.

Her heritage-her father was forcibly retired from the Gnomeregan taxi services, her mother had been a city defender-no doubt proved the compromise that produced her daredevil nature. She was proud to be the Mage Captain of the Vitae Aeternum guild. A professional adventurer, a talented elementalist… Spellchucker to the less couth. Pleased to have accommodated her love of loot, magick and peril. Wreckless to some.

She spotted the Amberstill Ranch pastures in the whiz past the left side. Fed coal to the fire. Jammed the accelerant combulator to the limit, pulled the studded cyclator yoke into her lap, nudged a little right toe to offset the added centrifics and her gyrochoppa shot skyward.

Her people had a word that didn't translate well. Roughly meant rebel when used in her context and never in compliment.

The engines raced up, funneled in the damp air with a throatier whine, twin streams of condensant and exhaust twirled behind. The gyrochoppa was fueled by high octane and magick. Kext was herself fueled by the rush of wind, the freedom in her passage, the buffoonery in her back seat and a fair ration of fine fruity wine acquired in Booty Bay, the name of which she still struggled to pronounce.

She wondered, rashly, if Binoff would be at the hall today. Perhaps her favorite fellow gnome might have comprehensive thoughts for an official NEXT date between them. Romance. Danger. Ice, wind and Fire: The life of a mage. Back to reality, she chided herself quickly. She twisted the flyer around an outcrop atop the valley wall, moment met the saucered gaze of some baffled mountain-clung critter as it passed under and within span of her rotor arc.

Into the valley beyond: A geometry of high-stoked braziers traced a concrete smear and squat of dwarven fliers laid out at range beyond the cliff wall. A scatter of rugged stone bungalows, the crooked jut of watchtowers and a flicker of artificial lights. At last her destination seen through flurries and the ragged peak of ridgeline fell away. Her hands danced over controls to trim out for touch-down.

A gasp of static and terse jargon in her ear. Ironforge Airfield saw her too. Sentinel controllers were routinely interrogative with a deceptively lax drawl. Dealt with most any technology on Azeroth and the language was Gnomish at least on this side of the Maelstrom.

And Ironforge was no doubt the technological seat of Alliance Warcraft. Arguably beside the Horde stronghold of Orgrimmar the most secure and diverse mortal city on Azeroth. Perhaps a tad more dank and less crowded but far more advanced than the gilded human spires of Stormwind City. A sprawl of change and a seat of stubborn resilience to rival the night elves' Darnassus and central in the Eastern Kingdoms to boot. T'was Kext's adopted home, her people once regaled the proud Gnomes of Gnomeregan were now but the Gnomeregan Refugees of Ironforge. Folk made do, would always make do.

She replied with appropriate whistles and clicks in her dense native language.

Again her vox buzzed with instructions. She answered with a hasty chirped phrase and peered around her windscreen. A mile away and below, on the single runway a burly dwarven bomber spewed steam and hunkered down on its skids, powered up for a takeoff run. Military had priority in the patterns, as always. Kext tugged the stick and kicked a leg, pushed the gyrochoppa into a wide circle that brought her back over the cliff wall at slightly less than regulated height.

Her head turreted to keep the bomber in sight. The machine roared up to speed and rattled airborne in a barrage of snow. The ship fought for height and lumbered westward, draped with bombs heavy on bent brawny wings. No doubt armed to the teeth, loaded for bear and likely on course to an oversea portal to Northrend… or the long run to a local contested zone.

Distracted so Kext awoke late and cut a tad close to the rocks. Last second loped over the valley rim close enough to scrape snow with a skid. She smirked as Hyrm involuntarily kicked at her seat. Leveled out, anticipated the call.

The vox blatted in her ear and she replied a single syllable. Broke from her circuit and rocketed for the 'pads. She weaved her ship above the swarm of military and a few privileged civilian flyers like her own. Lined up on the assigned VTOL 'pad by instinct and long experience. Flared a dozen feet above the flagstone the rotors blew a cloud of snow and dust.

The assigned groundguide had smartly turned his back to the deluge. The gnome ducked, hands aflare red and green and arms spread horizontal. The skids slapped once onto concrete and the gyrochoppa rebounded. Kext adjusted, twisted against the ground effect and slammed the ship down with a sticky surge of negative lift. Hyrm whimpered on the vox but was otherwise still. Touchdown! Kext cut power, stalled the flyer's 'plant with a jerk of the yoke and pinch of throttle.

With the relent of buffet the groundguide had turned back to observe. The gnome official gave a troubled tilt of his head, frowned on the semi-illegal power-down and waggled his finger in reprimand. Gathered his gear, flipped a lazy salute at the pilot's ambivalent wave and waddled off to the next operation with a sly smile under his goggles.

The ship popped and hissed as it settled. The rotors ran down, finally jerked to a stop and drooped. Kext was already into the downside checklist when her gyrochoppa rocked.

Hyrm climbed awkwardly from the cabin, a stumble with all the grace of a man released from the gallows in sight of the headsman. The gnome pilot grimaced to the mirror as the dwarf clumsily knelt on the right side Flushrusher nacelle. Frowned but held her tongue. The term NO STEP had been clearly repeated in four-language glyphs on the housing.

Fat fool.

Hyrm stretched and untucked inconvenient clothing. Squinted about the airfield and then unhappily at the gnome pilot ducked in her ship. Rubbed his furry scalp free of the memories of hours of leather confinement. A sigh, another gaze about the bustle of the airfield. Eventually the paladin stomped up, stepped on a skid and peered into to her cockpit. He slapped her shoulder for her attention, which was gifted with a grudge. "I must hurry to report dear, I hope you understand," he shouted above the din. "I'd help you with the cargo if I could," he added with but the faintest pantomime of regret.

"Gee, thanks Hyrm," Kext said evenly, spared not a glance from her checklist.

The pudgy paladin nodded in bliss and hurried off across the tarmac. Darted beyond marked safety lanes and over the median. Rounded a blind corner past the ram pen. Stumbled into the path of a bomber in led along the taxiway toward the barn. His ambivalent jaunt across the path caused the bomber's groundguide to signal a sudden brake with a shout. The bomber nosed down savagely to stop, shed a slight collection of snow and rattled empty hardpoint chains under the wings. The groundguide waved sorrowful at the cockpit.

Rushed oblivious in the direction of the Ironforge gate, Hyrm departed, cursed by the groundguide and frazzled bomber pilot alike unheard over the airfield tumult. The dwarf hurried for the exit arch, back to Vitae Aeternum's warm guild hall, scrumptious guild food and his stalwart entourage of guild gamblers.

Kext vexed at the fat paladin's departure until he was lost to sight. Blindly she reached and ducked, took a long draw from the straw-topped decanter fixed to the firewall. Another.

Finished with her checklist she climbed out from her cockpit. Stretched the kinks of the last four-hour leg of flight from her diminutive form. Wavered slightly and burped into her fist. Pried her cap and goggles from her head, let loose her shiny platinum hair to flare in the busy air. Long bangs tickled her nose. Absently she tucked some of the stray locks from her face into her earlobe, she tossed her gear into the cockpit. Rummaged and eventually found a suitable band of elastic to tie back her rebellious mop into a less-chaotic poof. She looked about the VTOL 'pad and was further troubled. Checked the vacant pad next-door to no avail. Slumped, noted the distinct absence of the vital cargo truck supposedly assigned to each landing pad.

She waved, caught the eye of the Ramp Master. The dwarf made an impatient motion of acknowledgement as he stopped. Kext made flat surface motions with her hands and punctuated the pageant with an exaggerated shrug and palms open skyward. The Ramp Master shrugged, showed his hands empty. He turned and pointed to the collection of various cargo haulers scattered near about the terminal portal on the far side of the flight line near the exit arch. Went on his way. Kext grumbled as she stomped across the busy tarmac.

* * *

The gilded human officer ho-hummed over the trestle table. Ghim had already forgotten her name in the wake of a careless handshake. "So, hunter… you wish to join the Merry Gentlefolk Guild?" she asked.

Ghim shrugged. Nodded. Painted a smile quickly.

"And you are… Gilnean?" She pretended to read a parchment under her palm.

"Hum," he admitted.

"And, what," asked the Officer, "what skills and experience do you feel you bring to the Merry Gentlefolk?"

Ghim was distracted by an approach. A guildmate to the Officer bounded past in a burdened twist through the maze of trestle and bench in the great hall. The guildie smiled a vague ambivalence to his fellow guildmates and those various beings sat with in interview. The fellow carried a crowded plate of meats and fruit meant for the courtesy buffet on the far wall, a highlight of any typical guild's recruitment drive. Ghim managed to avoid a lick at his lips but the Officer had seen his sidelong glance. He hoped the comments of his stomach still remained subvocal, shook the urge. Feigned an innocent air of zealous interest in the conversation, tried to ignore the supplement of foodstuffs to the gorgeous bounty mere steps away. "Been to the 'Core just recent. Blackrock Depths. Dire Maul West... in a five-man," he said with a toss of his hand.

The Officer returned little of the same emotion, tilted her head, looked dubious. "And to do what?" asked with the bruised demeanor of battered duty graced on the candidate with a null gaze. A familiar pattern. Ghim didn't tend to garner much excitement from the guild folk he met. At least THIS guildie seemed unimpressed with his qualifications and less concerned with his heritage or class. The redundancy of questions about Gilnea and his Hunter aspects was a tedium he barely tolerated for a few meals-worth of free food. He had lies to juggle and didn't exactly treasure the attention. He'd learned to cut Grampose loose on Guild Days as the boar's reaction to the boredom was… undiplomatic.

Ghim sat back, smile a rictus, "uh, the Maul t'was a rescue. Some guild pu-some folk got left behind after a wipe." He nudged his head indifferently, "Feathermoon Rangers dun asked."

"Success?" She asked.

"Two of'em din't make it," Ghim had again glanced at the buffet over her shoulder. "Zactly one-third oh suc-cess," he added astutely.

"And the Molten Core?" She shook her head, squinted at the parchment again.

"Oh course, the 'Core. Went a few times-guild t'was tryin' me out… ye see?" Ghim looked to the ceiling, "gut runs-ye know? Ran into some big-ass lava giant once. Got ugly but we's lucky 'seems." The human tapped his shoulder, regarded the officer with a sly pride.

"They brought an initiate into the 'Core?" the Officer squinted, didn't wait for his response. "Impressive," she lied. The significance of Ghim's motion missed or ignored. He'd forgotten that his gun wasn't there on his back. He winced slightly.

She looked down her nose a moment, "what guild?"

"Din't work out," Ghim waved blandly. Looked back to the buffet. "Cannae recall the guild name. 'Way' or 'May' somethin'," he added in distraction.

"I notice you are in leather." She went on.

"Hum," he acknowledged.

"No chainmail?" she persisted.

"Nae mail," he admitted. "T'is heavy. Cannae move."

"Understandable," she concurred without agreement. Again lifted her parchment and seemed to steel herself. "How'd a HUMAN get Hunter training?" she revealed a minute curiosity in her glance with little apparent goodwill.

"Southshore Militia," Ghim replied.

"Military grade?" she prodded.

"Dun what needed," he admitted.

She held on a breath, but when he failed to elaborate she shrugged. Pretended to scribble some comment on her sheet after a dip of pen into her inkwell. Traced further down the page. "Do you have a guild sponsor?" she asked with a sigh.

"Naw," he admitted. "But did a pick-up run with some oh ye folk…" his mind raced, clicked. "We raided… Stratholme?" He pretended to consult a memory. "Fergie? Pretty dwarf. Priest," he noted hopefully.

"Faebine," She frowned. "Was killed last week."

"Bought the whole farm?" Ghim was reflective and sober on the question. Not all an act. Ferg-Faebine had indeed been pretty and had treated him decent on the adventure.

"In the 'Core," she admitted with a tad of remorse.

"'Nuff said," he murmured. Dead folk in Molten Core: Another pattern for the guilds. Fuggin' folk need other hobbies, he reflected. Better duckin' skills. Wasn't his concern, not here, not now. Don't think about it. Move on. Relax. We'll chat tonight as we always do, he told himself. Looked up and he winced. He'd forgotten his place in this pageant. His face again went blank.

The Officer looked at him unreadably. Seemed apt to make a comment but relented. Instead her countenance was stone. She nodded and rose. "I'll be just a minute."

He blinked. The interview had been mercifully short. "May't I get a drink?" he barked to her departure quickly, thumbed at the buffet.

The Officer shrugged and pointed without a glance back as she weaved through the trestles. Took her place stood to a pompous night elf still in conference with another officer. As she waited her turn, yawned, shuffled her feet and pretended to consult her parchment.

Ghim jumped up. Dodged quickly through the scatter of trestles to the foodstuffs tabled on the rear wall. Watched the expected exchange of frowns and head shakes between the officer and her elven superior. He stuffed his pockets. His dimple twitched.

He was a Hunter. He stood in the press of a thousand heartbeats, the fog of a million scents. He knew every glare, every judgement unspoken in the room. Too many-beyond. The city was indeed a challenge. He knew Grampose stalked a vendor's delectable wares somewhere north and east. The vendor had yet to detect the boar's intentions. That made him even more hungry. He knew because his pet knew. Many folk distrusted the Human Hunter. Many folk hated the Gilnean. He was fine with that. They made up their own stories, kept distant. Some wanted to fight. That worked just fine. He was a nobody to their affront and bluster.

He sensed an otherwise attention close-to.

The gruff dwarf warrior chewed on her toothy side, only a few morsels clung to chestnut sideburns that curved thick to her chin over boisterous cheeks. Had ambled beside his stand over the buffet jungle. The dwarf had a livid scar on her forehead that she'd parted her shoulder-length coffee hair to display. Dark brown eyes, sunk in a pudgy wrinkled wisdom, met his with a slight spark. She wore an impressive assortment of gear matched by color and condition. Not too shabby, a display of experience to soothe guildie questions. A carnival of trinkets glistened and pulsed on chain and band, fit to slots on her armor. A parade of piercings weighed at her earlobes, lip and nose. A maze of clan tattoos across her significant bustline seen as she'd loosened her tunic three buttons deep. More ink colorfully scribed on hairy arms up to the bunch of her mail sleeves. Indifferently polished ornate pauldrons were loose on their straps and swept back over her shoulders. Her breastplate casually unlatched and hung off to her side, segmented metal gloves and other accoutrements clipped to the heavy belt. Grekthrope had used the term "Sunday's Best." Ghim got the idea and saw such an appropriate description thence thereapon.

Her eyes were at the human's chin until he bent slightly to accommodate her regard. So armored, he reflected, the lass must have weighed more than a kodo... would have taken a harnessed team to right her had she toppled. He also noted, somewhat sourly, that he'd personally met several prettier kodos. The thought did made it easier to smile.

"So sweety," she leant closer. "Jist grubbin' or ye on a noble quest?" she fuffed around a mouthful and patchwork smile. Had spoken Common, a courtesy in Ironforge.

Ghim shrugged. Lifted his handful of pie toward the group of officers conferred nearby. "Shiny path t'ain't lookin' nigh," he replied in Dwarvish.

"Och," she poohed. Whipped about to take him in, her loosed chestplate battered the contents of his hands free into an arc onto a nearby trestle top.

Graceful too, he mourned. Twitched his dimple in meager apology to the folk who sat the table set back with a splay of confused outrage. The victims glared and grumbled down to swat at their garments and paperwork.

"Such a waste," she recovered with barely a flinch as Ghim sucked at a scraped knuckle and the remnants of pie. "They nae ken to what they turnin' away," the dwarf soothed.

"Still talkin' it over," he offered, nudged his shoulder.

"But ye got mouths to feed," she ventured. "No doubt."

He gave in. "Only me own," he suggested. He'd noted that the dwarf went full heeled. Twin hilts on her hips. A long leather-wrapped haft over her shoulder, a dented buckler turtled her back. Ghim held a meager Red Pass: his kukris, bandoleer and gun were checked in at the South Gate checkpoint by city rules. He still hadn't figured who he had to bed to get better privileges. "And me pet," he added in distraction.

"Oh," she blinked. "A hunter eh? Thought ye a rogue by ye gear, silly me," she huffed. Again she looked him over. "Still got hope. T'is early, but ye fancy a wee drink?"

Ghim bit his tongue. "Ne'er otherwise," he replied.

"I'll wait for ye then," she promised, tossed a thick thumb over her shoulder. "Out on the boulevard." She lifted a mug.

He nodded, touched his fist to her salute. Looked out across the tables.

The guildie interviewer assigned to the warrior had waved and called.

Nodded back and the dwarf threw back. "We see ye a worthy 'venterer, dearie." Graced a best checkerboard smile on the hunter. Sighed and fretted as the guildie persisted from across the great hall. A nudge of heavy shoulder, a last leer and she clanked away to the summons.

Ghim watched as she daintily lifted an armored leg over the bench across from her interviewer and slammed down. The warrior distractedly picked at her gums and fluffed her riotous bangs as her guildie interviewer chatted. The dwarf was still under interrogation as Ghim was politely shown the way out.

* * *

The Airfield terminal tunnel fed into the rear of the Deeprun Traum. A boisterous and unkempt station where one dared a commodious chaos of crowd and rush through to a particularly busy transfer tunnel for the crammed blitz of Gnomish Tinkertown. A meander around hectic business and brush of elbows led to yet another funnel into Ironforge proper. Conveniently this deployed at the desired Fourth Level, most central of the eight semi-circular public tiers of vast dwarven under-mountain expanse. A curved crush of main boulevard and a funneled sprawl toward the South Portal... whence in the vicinity of the most popular city egress the numbers grew truly oppressive in volume and timbre. With steadfast determination and experience at last was found the Vitae Aeternum Guild Hall entrance among a spiderwork of similar doors. Of course Kext also had to consider detour to the main Ironforge Bank to make a bulk deposit which meant long lines, surly attendants and a thousand disgruntled patrons. Oh. The. Joy.

The roar of mighty engines and military jodies left behind, Kext transitioned into the lively bustle of the busy Deeprun Traum station and the throngs closed in like pincers. Hawkers from islanded booths and carts hollered enticements, habitually timed between vox blared electric announcements and in riotous conflict with the disparate catcalls for the gladly arrived or dearly departed at large. Handheld signs scratched many language piths. Flags waved and sometimes magick intervened to many tired groans. The more expedient folk peered over crowds and scurried about their various tasks.

An elephantine train of sooty traumcars thundered free from one of the two Southbound spark-flash voids. Roared up and clanked to an inertialess stop precisely on the platform ramps. With the roar of arrival a dirty swell of subterrain air spilled over the masses. Anticipatory and opportunistic travelers dashed, in for the best spots, or out for a gasp of succor. Indeed the wondrous Mekkatorque folley provided all the comforts: Fast free travel between Stormwind and Ironforge on cushioned seats. Apt and attentive security. Enchanted fields that kept most of the dog-sized rat infestation relegated to the greasy traumway. Maps, schedules, earplugs and respiration masks available at reasonable prices from friendly vendors.

Tired veteran travelers shouldered out and blinked to the boards or grumbled toward the exits. A tourist saucered over a colorful pamphlet, cursed and corralled the family paused as a rock in the stream. A filthy gnome hawked deep-fried critters on sticks, wrinkled cups of mushrooms and dusty-packaged sweets with a discorporate drivel of Dwarvish, Gnomish and Common. His hands blurred between coin and commodity and customer without noticeable effect on his well-practiced surmon.

Kext chugged behind her truckload of crates and chests and skirted the crowd as best she could. The four-wheeled cargo truck was of dwarven make. A simplistic unpowered affair with barely-adequate weight cancellation and the mere rumor of mechanical brakes. Kext's progress through the station was at best arduous. Gnomes were compact and strong but the load was optimally a two-being task. Had the flatbed been of gnomish make manual labor would not have been an issue. Had the proposed second being not been more interested in weak revenge and a dishonest game of cards the issue would not have been a manual labor.

Revenge; Kext dreamt of all sorts as she broke a rare sweat over the guild's latest bounty-such that it was-for the previous night's raid run through some nameless ruins in Stranglethorn Vale. She ported a reward for services allowed and requested by the guild's windfall connections with the Mountside Cartel. For Vitae Aeternum and their ambitions to plumb Molten Core such generous payments received for relatively tame dungeon exploits and subsequent practice in raid maneuvers were a godsend. Most guilds struggled to maintain a decent income and still stock up for a foray into Molten Core.

Kext was Vitae Aeternum's Official Cartel Representative Liaison, tasked with the proper collection of payment from, and a surrender of updated data to, the Mountside Cartel's honored representatives. Main faction banks damned the Cartels which meant that folk had to meet and greet to get paid. Of course said Main faction banks so damned said Cartel commerce because said Cartel involvement with said hypothetical Guild was-at best-a tad grayish in a liberal interpretation of General Guild Charter. T'was actually downright illegal when one considered why there were Cartels and then there were Guilds.

So hence came the need for an Officially Unofficial Cartel Liaison and Ceremonial Escort with a mind on subtlety, discretion and security and unquestionable Guild Loyalties. Luckily Vitae Aeternum had Kext Blinglehopper: She owned her own cargo-capable flyer. In theory there was no little danger implied on such a mission. In theory a liaison's task required assurance and a half-ton of loot required insurance. Hyrm was the VACRL Ceremonial Escort. In theory. Hyrm verified the count and the loot, secured the meeting ground. In theory. He helped load the loot in the flyer's cramped cargo bay. In theory. Provided escort safely through to the Ironforge Bank. In theory. In reality Hyrm was about as helpful as a gearspring up a trogg's rectal cavity.

Kext yawned as she nudged her weight against the truck handle. Grumbled and sipped from her straw, the decanter transferred to the flatbed handles before she had dismissed her flying machine to magick stowage on her belt.

In practice the greatest danger Kext had ever experienced in six years as CRL occurred when her previous Escort had stumbled into a kobold camp while enthralled by a gather of flowers. Kext had reduced most of the dangerous and understandably agitated bipedal predators to slightly annoyed cinders well before her Escort's sword had cleared the scabbard. The security premise of her Escort was doubtless proven unnecessary.

The assistance in a bulk conveyance of a half-ton of loot was far more vital and desired. T'was not just the effort-though that rated a fair percentage of complaint. Not really, but the toil might make her conspicuous even in the midst of Ironforge. She wasn't a fan of THAT. Kext was wary of any attention her labors garnered in her course. She had a good cover: Stained and ruffled from her flight she blended well and looked to be just another logistics labored nobody among the throngs. Concerned little that anyone on the prowl could differentiate but the fact that she escorted a clandestine and potentially illegal small fortune of coin and loot kept her alert. Fortified that, as a mage, the gnome was practiced well adept at the arts of violence. But had she gained the attention of some well-meant official, such as a Thief Catcher patrol or Block Warden? The gig would be up, Vitae Aeternum's shady income exposed and at LEAST that source of vital income extinguished. Last time she'd complained Vella had PROMISED a resolution.

Grumble. Liquid courage, liquid strength, push our money to the bank, she recited to herself. For the journal. Took another sip. Thought, just another poor sod on the way back to the barn. For the law.

A spark of panic and she came back to reality. Fell under one side of her handles and shoved, grudged a barely-adequate evasive as a dwarf child stumbled across her path. The incident was well past before she'd picked out the negligent parent to berate. She'd barely assimilated that encounter before required of another deviation around a trio of Thief Catchers mused over the bruised crumple of an elderly night elf with his pockets turned out. After that she came within a dangerous proximity of the coffee shop queue and stayed on high alert.

A fair fellow gnome, nose buried in a drape of scroll taller than he, nearly stumbled headlong into her truck. He spilt his coffee as he jumped aside, tugged at and ripped his manuscript while the parchment was momentarily pinched under her wheel. Kext ducked under the handles to mouth a silent apology. He a managed a slighted retort and ducked back to his study. A haggard and aged human appeared from the crowd and paced along with her. He tried to sell hand-improved tourist maps that promised all the best sights and bites of the dwarf capital's herculean sprawl-with an emphasis on the eight-level warehouse ramps. Kext asked the man technical questions about his cartography practices and academic qualifications until he edged away with a frosty grin. At that point she half considered a headlong blind rush through the continuous annoyances-she could always hose any blood off the truck before she returned it.

"There you are!" cried a distinct voice from the crowd. She blinked and scanned the throngs a mite foggilly. Picked out the familiar face-then two familiar faces-in the blur. She smiled at the folk who hurried forward, pushed expertly through the masses to meet her.

Contact imminent, Kext dragged her bootheels and hung from the handle until the truck grudged to a halt. She leant with an ironic nonchalance against her burden, smiled, shoved some hair from her eyes and returned another wave.

Two guildmates rushed up, showed signs of their long dash from the guild hall.

Strode tall, nimble and haughty the night elf Vella Streamrunner arrived first. Vexed on the gnome's condition. "We saw that fat-ass come in, we knew he left you again," the druid said as she swiped at her nose and considered the traumway unhappily.

"I'm sure he didn't want lunch to get cold," Kext smiled up at her friend, fellow guildie, and roommate. She bit her lip when looked to the other arrival.

Binoff Cartrimer stumbled up a breath later on his short gnome legs. The warrior was slightly more exerted. He doubled over, fitfully took in air. Waved his hand dismissively as the women looked on. "At… your… service…" he huffed.

Vella and Kext exchanged a quick eye. Vella winked as she walked around the cart, and made to exchange places with Kext. She leant close. "I planned on marching Hyrm RIGHT back here, but then I saw Binoff and figured…"

"Appreciated," Kext smiled up. "You want help?"

"Pish," Vella waved her away. The druid shimmered. The pretty, leggy and proper night elf blurred and became a moonkin tower of feathers and claws. The transformation drew a few startled glances from passers-by. Binoff laughed.

Kext hopped onto the flatbed and wordlessly gestured to her fellow gnome. She took Binoff's hand and pulled him up, leaned close as she did. The two sat hip-to-hip in the tight space between crates of loot. Wind whipped, chapped face over her coveralls, Kext sat uncharacteristically mute, all lashes and blush suddenly. Playfully she kicked her feet over the edge and smiled past her shoulder. Binoff received her attentions most humbly.

Moonkin/Vella leant forward and sniffed the straw from Kext's decanter. Wrinkled her beak and frowned. Looked about the station and swore to herself. Considered the gnome couple's awkward interactions. Sighed, and with one feathered talon the hulk of moonkin/Vella started the truck off again. A few giant strides and diverted down the access tunnel to Tinkertown. Tossed the decanter in the nearest trash bin as she passed and painted a fanged grin of innocence.

Kext regarded Binoff, chin on her shoulder. He smiled distractedly.

Vella maintained a conspiratorial silence from the truck handles as her moonkin pace ate up the passage and her muscular priority cleared a path of the otherwise unwary.

The cacophonous departure of a traum from the station behind. Kext checked herself for grease or dead bugs from her flight. Binoff tested his breath against his palm. Once the ruckus cleared Binoff leaned over, spoke warmly into Kext's ear, "dear, I've meant to ask you about this fine restaurant I'd heard about…"

* * *

The tavern squatted comfortable and dim on the seventh level of Ironforge, buried under a garish restaurant and shouldered between gaudy inns.

Ghim recognized the dive as a likely travellers' hotspot, near to the ramp from the upper levels with a well-marked entrance. Lonely business folk or lost tourists could mean easy free drinks, perhaps even a bed for the night, if there was some game to tease. People seemed friendly enough, the tavern catered to mostly dwarfs-not a standout in the Free Dwarf capital. The restaurant upstairs was rumored renown for safe exotic fare and further promised hangover cures at reasonable prices, so said the barkeep with a wink.

He shrugged to himself. He'd done far worse than woo a bearded wonder for shelter and a sack in the past. The current fashion preferred the most facial hair on dwarven males, which helped. The menu kept in the bar had no pictures so the human had only feigned interest when he stood to scope out his fellow barflies. He'd had little success on the prowl for any companionship of late. There were lonely solo beings aplenty in the packed tavern and many peered open scopes on the room. The uninspired shuffle-stamp dance floor was presided over by a competent if unimaginative minstrel. But the human's tentative approaches had been politely refused when ventured, generally with little regret on either side. He yawned, disappointed in his first hours in the 'great' Ironforge, Queen of the Mountain and All She Sees. Nae. T'was the Big-ass Bitch Rock that brooded over another Hungry, Lonely Night. He'd settled on sips of his ale and a forced remote observation of inebriate society at large. Dwarves had some of the oddest customs and most ridiculous dances he'd ever seen-and he'd been to troll parties. Male dwarves were chatty and energetic, the females preferred to be demure and judgy. The overall effect was a comedy acted by serious drinkers. The musician took requests but Ghim didn't know any songs. He wanted to dance, but he didn't want the attention. He forced himself to enjoy the time as idle.

His hunter sense for danger still overrode his whimsy at times. At a nearby booth sat a couple of burly male humans, drunken and boorish. Warrior class, but their scabbards gaped empty. Red Passes too. They haggled over each round, but didn't buy cheap. Duly noted. In a far corner sat two female gnomes in city office robes and chirped and whistled in their remarkable language which Ghim promised himself to learn. He eyed the diminutive beings longer than his norm. He'd rarely seen a gnome, let alone heard their language before he'd entered Ironforge. He knew exactly three, he reflected, and one was a prick, one likely an Un'goro corpse and the other was a dragon. He frowned on the thought, held court at the bar, sipped his ale and pecked at the complimentary dried peas. The barkeep was cool-chatted him up and liberally insisted on but semi-frequent refills. Threw in a shot once when Ghim made him laugh.

The toothache deep city gong announced the hour as grown late and Ghim realized he'd best make other plans. He pushed down the bar, drew along his bowl of snacks and his mug. Sidled next to a local fellow who'd made but staggered rounds to the little and no detours at the booths. He called on the 'keep and put down the coin to fill the dwarf's tankard. The dwarf blinked, stared but a breath and thanked him with a wobbly salute. A slight sigh and the dwarf expectantly leaned close.

"Hey chima," Ghim asked discreetly in Dwarvish. "Where bouts ye sleep rough in thae here town?"

The dwarf eyed him, noted Ghim's old gear and empty sheath and likely discarded any deviousness as impractical or unprofitable. Rubbed his chest-length beard, made a point to weigh the question while he put things together. Ghim waited patiently as realization played stages across the dwarven face. He thought, yeah ye saw me show my mungiaspect to impress them girls an hour ago. Make the connection so I can get some fuggin' shuteye…

"Eighth level. Down the run, look for the braziers half-lit," the dwarf recalled foggily. He paused and lifted a brow. He added "t'ain't naught down thar 'cept storage 'n rats... maybe some troggs." He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Guard catchya... doubt they be way civil to ye kind... Gilnean. Heh, they keep the stockade clean 'n square meals," he punctuated with a long pull off his tankard.

"Thanks," Ghim patted the dwarf's arm, made to move on. He stopped and looked up.

The rowdy humans he'd observed earlier stood over him and grinned. They'd made the connection too, Ghim guessed.

He felt the barkeep tense over his rag. The helpful dwarf ducked off to a booth, protected his ale as he went.

* * *

Kext and Binoff made their way along the glare of the busy boulevard, enjoyed the jovial splash of unlikely colors from the inns, the primordial throb of music from the livelier taverns. Alternated between awkward hand holds and inexpert shoulder hugs.

"The place is a little rough dear," the gnome warrior said, "that damn tavern downstairs I guess. But they serve fresh Wailing Cavern mushrooms. Brought in every day!" he amended.

Kext knew the place he had in mind. Stayed tolerantly silent on his arm. The tubers from Razorfen were likely passable but nothing fresh made it in from the Wailing Caverns unless you knew folk. Few dealers knew how to properly handle the special needs of those 'shrooms. Kext next considered Binoff.

Gruff, compact and neat. Slick and bald headed. A black dagger of a beard and a thin, exiled mustache. Warrior. Fellow adventurer. Dashing, confident and sometimes aplomb the warrior also possessed one of the most important traits: A nice ass. Was slightly taller than she in his boots. Gnomes rarely grew beyond three feet and some inches in height and the couple made their way with a practiced care through the crowd at an average human's elbow level.

The warrior was momentarily distracted by a display of swordplay from a game room window. The enchanted bout had magically reproduced his image and placed him in mortal combat with an enraged tauren. He checked his tunic.

Perhaps she could cleverly suggest the place she knew... Relented. The current eatery would do. They were right next to the nice enough inns. As he'd admitted, there was an interesting tavern below. She snuggled on Binoff's shoulder, trapped his arm. They made for the stairs over the tavern entrance and up to the eatery.

"Heard someone got mugged down here last week," she snuck into his ear.

Binoff looked sidelong. "Yes, a mage. Terrible thing. I knew her, she was from Mayday."

"Really?" Kext frowned, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Binoff murmured, "My old guild never did have any luck on their side."

He considered the doorway to the tavern below their destination thoughtfully. "Good gnome, she'll be missed," he added vaguely.

"Died?" Kext raised her brow.

"Oh yes," the gnome warrior waved his hand dismissively. "She got dumped behind one of these places, bled out. By the time they found her... no resurrection. Shame. Ah here we are."

Kext held his arm tighter, pecked his cheek. Sought to lighten the mood. They met the stairs with an exchange of glances. Clambered up, laughed lightly at the awkward gait required to parse the dwarf-scale steps. Obviously not an exclusively gnomish restaurant. If any such existed the frugal refugee population would likely fail to support such a venture and mushrooms weren't exactly a heavy-demand staple in other species' diets.

The two gnomes froze as the tavern door below the stairway bashed open.

A somewhat small, shabby human tumbled out. Rolled free and collected himself in a three point stance as the boulevard crowds parted. He grimly faced the two larger humans who confidently emerged after him.

"Oh dinner and a show," Kext laughed. She held Binoff as he made to continue on.

Binoff stared at the human for a breath, seemed troubled. He leaned down to her ear, "Dear, if you've seen one man-squabble… oh, I'll go get us a table."

Kext smiled and looked to him. Moved in for a kiss but he turned up the stairs too quickly. She frowned, snapped her fingers and looked back to the fight.

* * *

Ghim licked the blood from his lips. He'd taken his hits to get out of the tavern but now he was on the open street. They'd drawn an audience but he was aware of the onlookers without much concern. Red Passes, no blades. T'was all in good fun.

Both humans were warriors. Black Hair stood off and took his cues from smug Blondie in berserker stance. Ghim curved around to flank, arms out, pushed a perimeter in the paused crowd. The duo rushed him confident in the wake of the Gilnean's retreat. Blondie stomped in, all hands like a biggape, while Black Hair flanked.

Ghim blurted the mungia-Monkey Aspect mantra and spun around the man's grasp, elbow met kidney as he stepped away. The berserker cursed and stumbled.

The second man was smarter, a tad quicker; he hopped from left to right feet to counter the wiry hunter's display of stiletto speed. Kept his fists close to his chest, hid his intentions.

Ghim slipped in, they met and grappled in the wake of the Black Hair's wide swing.

Ghim lost his grip and faded free. Defensive Stance... really? Dodged two quick punches, noted the recovery of the berserker. He kicked Black Hair in the groin. Spun around the crumpled warrior and kneed him flat. Blondie was forced to step over and fumed.

As he became engaged in a game of duck and snap with Blondie, Black Hair too rage stanced berserk and hopped to his feet on his way to flank as Ghim grappled.

Perfectly timed.

Ghim dodged Blondie's grab, jumped as the man overextended. Used Blondie's knee as a step-off. Climbed over, leapt out and looped his arm around Black Hair's neck. He swung, threw in all his weight and dragged the man down.

A twist and pivot up, and Ghim's bootheel clocked the man in the jaw. Black Hair spat teeth clicked on the pavement. A lift on elbow failed and Black Hair slumped. Wouldn't be up soon, Ghim decided. One down.

Emboldened he went straight in on Blondie. Dodged two jabs. Sparred around the biggape, feigned and took a snap to the jaw. Used the moment as the man realized some success. He ducked in and rewarded Blondie with a long, sleek uppercut. As the warrior staggered back he rounded two more gut shots for spite sake. Bashed the man's knee with his foot when the man locked up to cease his retreat. The biggape tripod growled and threw a roundhouse. Ghim coiled back, twisted around the punch and bashed the heavy jawline again. As the man shook his head clear, Ghim danced around his shoulders and slammed an elbow into the man's nape. Blondie checked out the flagstones for a few rounds.

Ghim jumped, not used to an audience reaction. Spared a fast glance to the stairway above. Chided himself and went to work.

* * *

Kext tiptoe cheered and clapped. "Bravo!" she cried: The little man had taken the two bullies apart! At least that's how she saw things-the only way two bigger men would attack a single was cowardice. Kext the refugee and outcast hated bullies. She couldn't abide-

She blinked and her ideal notion died a quick death of disappointment. The little human stepped in and efficiently rifled the downed men's pockets. Cast off and palmed with practiced efficiency and eventually came free with a fair sample of coin. His victims stirred and groaned as the small human stepped back and looked up.

Officious shouts, demands to make way and with batons held high the Thief Catchers peeked fitfully over heads as they veed into the illicit gather. The little human took in the new sport and spun like a dancer, shoulder-faded into the onlookers away from the charge of the guard. He deftly stooped and twisted around the pointed fingers and catcalls. Even from her excellent vantage Kext lost him quickly in the throngs as folk dispersed.

The Thief Catchers pondered gruffly over the wiggle of elbows and knees and turned-out pockets of his victims. One turned about and called for a healer.

Inwardly she sneered. The small human had nice moves, but he-she was pretty sure it was a male, despite the long hair-had probably been caught in an attempt to pickpocket one of the men. No justice, as the villian dashed away with his intentions intact. Shame. Energized by the fight, she shook her head and hopped up the stairs to the second... no third best restaurant in this part of town. And to Binoff, schemed up for a perfect night. And she hoped someone might try mug her to their peril.

* * *

Ghim stopped in the shadow of a vacant shop overhang, considered the winnings and expenses of his night. He'd paused in the seedier parts of the seventh-level where Thief Catchers stood out and the festival was a tad grayer. His salvaged funds proved short of room fare, short of anything but the choicest of noxious, uninspired spirits. He used the reflection of the darkened prismatic glass to check for unwanted attention and sighed.

Hotel Eighth Level, check me in, he mused sourly. Wondered if trogg could be made edible. Perhaps, he considered, he'd examine the Deeprun Traum for more pristine lodgings. Anywhere with rats big enough to menace the gnome workers promised some sport and Grampose would appreciate a hunt. First the guild rosters and a free breakfast. He'd meet with his contact at nine gongs in the magick place near the loud fountain. Oh the joys of being a tourist.

A flash of color across the bustled boulevard caught his attention.

A gnomish female worked a window at one of the poke joints. The dancer wore a lavish and scanty harem billow with clothe tones of yellow and brilliant bronze fittings. Fixated on him with her big green eyes under stressed golden locks and tried to enjoy in unison union with the gilded pole that shared her space. He'd noticed her's as the only occupied booth in a darkened array of others along the front of the establishment. He rolled his eyes to note the joint's entryway was closed and bolted with a sign tacked over the split between doors.

He was a hunter, he'd never been fooled anyway.

"Hey!" Her voice boomed amplified through the prismatic security glass. She huffed and managed a clunky pirouette and kick.

Ghim innocently touched his hand to his own chest and quizzed.

"Yeah you…" she huffed. "Big boy." She swung her hips and bashed at the solid glass with an outflung knee. "Found your special girl yet?" she managed. Took a deep breath and tried a more ambitious twist of limb and silk around the pole. Floundered as her almost weightless scarf slipped contrary to her attempt and plastered over her face. She released her grip to pull at the annoyance, fell free of the pole and thumped heavily onto the cushions of her cubicle. Her further commentary was in an unknown language but required little translation as she fought the good fight free of her own trappings.

Ghim sighed. Looked up and down the darkened boulevard. Leisurely crossed to scrutinize her performance. Eventually she glared up at him from a somewhat suggestive recline on the cubicle floor-her posture only slightly sabotaged as the leg of her pantaloons had caught in a studded cushion button some feet above her head. She scissored her legs and ripped the fabric free with a curse.

His dimple twitched and he rolled his eyes, arms akimbo. "Jist got here," the human reported patiently.

"Oh," she blinked. "Then good… good. Dammit. Uh, carry on. Drat." She paused at another struggle with her garments. "Enjoy the music."

Ghim managed a wink and quickly ducked away. After a few paces he again heard her voice muffled from behind the glass, "and stay away from these places… such rip-offs!"

Ghim didn't know much about gnomes but he knew what wasn't. Such creatures as that dancer might own the world and test the bounds of reality, but he'd seen ogres with more grace.

* * *

Binoff waited for comment. A breath. Two.

When there was no addendum he continued, "So likely they pushed down the wrong lava tube. I told the Guild Leader that the map was wrong, but she obviously wasn't hearing it."

He paused, looked from the specials board back to Kext.

His companion was all smiles, cheeks squished between her fists, elbows firm on table. Her eyes lit on him. She only blinked when he looked away, he noted. Blinked and threw back on her ale. She'd ordered at least four to his singles. And he'd excused himself to the little twice. The warrior rubbed his beard. He refused to again point out her ale froth mustache, as the phenomenon tended to return every time he looked away. The joke had gotten old.

A Thief Catcher stomped in, set his attitude adjuster on the counter and pointed gruffly at a bagged order on the rack. Tapped his foot as he nodded to Binoff and turreted a bored inspection over the few other occupied booths as the 'keep rushed to comply.

"I fear dear," Binoff began anew. Paused.

Kext had mouthed 'fear dear' and giggled.

Smiled automatically and again he rubbed his beard. "A concern, I guess. That Kandre might have led Mayday to a far worse…" Held up, mused with a frown.

The gnome mage was leaned around her plate and teased the quivered antennae of a cockroach nuzzled at her barely-touched supper. After a moment she noted her companion's silence. Batted her lashes to Binoff while her finger still entertained the insect.

"Dear, perhaps we should consider moving on," Binoff suggested as gently as he could. "I fear… dear, that you've perhaps gotten, uh, a bit tired," he shooed the insect and held her hand.

"Oh no!" she cried, pulled his hand in hers close. Into her food. "I'm fine." Putted at the mess she'd made. Acted decisively. Rubbed both their hands with his napkin. Dipped in her ale.

Binoff shook his head, "Then I'm boring you. Perhaps a change of scenery? The Mystic Ward? It's almost time for the portal renewal."

Stubbornly Kext looked about. Hovered and focused on the restaurant counter with a squint. "Top of the occifer to you, evening!" she declared in fat-lipped Dwarvish.

The Thief Catcher smiled and ducked, shook his head as the waiter fumbled his coins.

"See?" she rolled her shoulders and beamed stubbornly.

"Charming," Binoff denoted blandly.

* * *

The battered lute screeched and the drunk that played dipped and bobbed. Likely in his drunken senses his music was a true art. Ghim observed idly from a small alcove nearby, apparently unnoticed in the shadows of haphazard off-hours lighting at half burn. He had a bottle in his hand. Grampose snored in his lap. His sleep skins were laid out under him on the greasy equipment cases.

Surprisingly the dwarf drunkard had a fairly true voice. His lyrics painted a far better image than his inept strings. The song weaved an ageless sadness about sunshine and rain, when one remembered an old lover's name. Ghim favored, figured to remember, the tune. The drunks gathered about the brazier cheered and passed the bottle. The singer stopped short and dropped his lute roughly to claim his swig.

A flicker of primary color in the cold gray warehouse: A bright yellow moth fluttered out of the darkness. The creature-Ghim took it for an ash caught in a draft at first-lit upon Grampose's shoulder with a bumble and considered the hunter with giant green eyes and a squiggle of antenna. Ghim sighed, not fooled for a second.

"Still jist got here," he mumbled.

A bottle smashed and Ghim turned to see the drunks grapple with animated concern until another bottle appeared. He looked back but the moth had fled into the cavernous warehouse night and was made invisible to his hunter senses.

* * *

The door creaked and closed and Vella peered out from her covers.

Kext stalked in. Stumbled slightly. A grunt. She patted the desk with a vague smile and rubbed her hip. Kicked her sandals away, pulled off her clothes and fell face-first onto her own bed. This time.

"Thought you had-?" Vella asked her roommate around a yawn.

"Nah," Kext said muffled by her pillow.

"Let me guess," Vella said flatly. "You got drunk."

"Ack," Kext booed. "Binoff. He got all weird after there was this fight. I didn't really catch on him for the whole time. Sssreally distracting. So? I lost track oh my drinks."

"He got in a fight?" Vella blurted, slightly alarmed. "Binoff isn't-"

"Nae, you naw listenin?!" Kext slurred. "Just some randy humans at it. Binoff quit early on me."

"Oh too bad," Vella soothed. "Try again soon enough eh?"

The only reply was a pillow-dampened snore.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter 2: Little Disasters

T'was nothing under the Archbishop's desk.

Naught but spiders, dust bunnies and... whatever THAT was, willed Rindy Cartrimer. Gingerly she recoiled from the questionable spoil, chin on knees, shins hugged and meditated on impossible and invisible. The young rogue contemplated consequence if indeed the Archbishop found current duties best served sat at his desk: T'was a dire speculation of alarm, bootheels, bloody indignation, violence... nothing good. The inevitable rush of beefy guards and she with but her tiny dagger would at best elicit gruff laughter and new memorial stains on the already well-storied flagstone. Sudden humiliation and certain death proved a more positive of her suppositions. She'd entertained some predictions that were downright fuggin' lachrymose while in rodent heed to the silk wrinkle varicose translucence and toenail jaundice sandaled just inches beyond her hidey-hole. Unawares and but a gray whisker away the aged priest searched with a mumble of utter desperation… for what Rindy could guess not. The Archbishop wouldn't want for anything she'd yet possessed: She'd planned carefully. She'd worked delicately and rarely left a trace. She'd yet to actually steal anything.

She silently chanted a rogue mantra: Eyes down, tempt nigh the knack in your prey. Stealth was skill beyond petty magick and trickery and the palpable could be maintained undetectable with discipline and practice. Ponder naught t'ain't now. Breathe… breathe shallow, hyperventilation was an easy slip on the fight or flight slide.

T'ain't nothin' here, m'lord, she urged. T'ain't I here 'cause I CANNAE be here.

There were many reasons an amatuer theif couldn't exist in the Cathedral of Light: T'was guarded jealous in the heart of the human capital. T'was midday, a weekday and a bank holiday with the cranky Cathedral Staff on highest formal vigilance amidst the pius clatter of pilgrim soles. The visitor devout were politely corralled and tightly accounted-for, relegated to restrictive tours from The Grand Entrance to the cathedral's Sacredest Mortal Works beheld for a metered preponderance and then modestly shuffled on through to Ye Olde Gift Shoppe. The sanctuary Exit had been known to abruptly contact posteriors in departure. The well-groomed courtyards near the busy canalway arch were scrutinized by obvious and non-obvious security measures. Renowned nigh impregnable, only foolish sinners would strive to subterfuge such the stalwart sentinel stewardship secured so with steel and sanctity as was Stormwind's Cathedral of Light.

Rindy and her uncelebrated gang of cohorts were just the fools to sin such.

Of course the gutter knew the drain, she'd figured. Her fellow conspirators were low among the filthy and castaway with little visible means of support-which meant Rindy could afford them. They were as untrustworthy as echoes in an avalanche zone which meant Rindy knew exactly where she stood. But the rumors had proved right: The ragamuffin street clan had a rare-and to Rindy invaluable-knowledge of prewar sewers under the Cathedral of Light used (naturally) as intended and too for occasional shelter from those less weatherly of storms.

She could rely on her surly dwarf escort to secure the vulnerable canalway sewer entrance until she emerged victorious... or the hubbub announced that she wouldn't. She could also trust the pair to slit her throat when most profitable and convenient. Luckily Rindy was aware of a very specific supply and demand at the somewhat unlikely confluence of underworld powers related to her mission. The knowledge promised a faint chance for success with preservative quantities of her lifeblood and guts still internally arranged. She liked the odds-

The priest putted a hopeful grunt, moved quickly to his left and reached low.

Rindy gritted back fawn compulsion, pale gripped the hilt pressed on the drumroll under her breast and evoked a few handy deities with a zeal unwont-albeit silently and a tad hypocritically. Faith lay nae among her strongest points and that suited the current task just fine; Operation God Squad wasn't by any means a blessed endeavour. Thievery from the clergy (even to expose conspiracy at highest levels) didn't tend to go over well with true believers.

Master Shaw had shared her zeal for the mission-without a visible enthusiasm for Rindy's participation, any reasonable expectation of her success… or clear permission for her to proceed. Well read was she on the art of plausible deniability, so she'd winked and admitted that she perfectly understood his evasiveness. Mathias' palm to forehead gesture had been professionally authentic, his eye-roll flawless. With a practiced patience he'd politely repeated his request for two sugars and skimmed cream and tsked her away with a fatherly disdain. (A veritable good-to-go for any able spy, she reflected.) Rindy's REAL father actually did disdain a hundred times better but she'd only buy HIM coffee to throw it in his smug gnome face.

She'd hiked her metaphorical pitards and ducked into the bricked keep of bloop stew and stench and steeled for a long slog. Her spine crept from the very tangible twin dwarvish glares of murder at her back and a supposition of divine disdain doubtless imagined. Muck up, leg stuck down and think of naught but the smell of roses, knee deep rinse and repeat for thirty or so yards in the heavily used sewer. The four pounds of rubber suit was soon a reservoir of sweat she'd convinced herself was but a mass exchange. When she'd passed from sight of her partners-and hence any connection to the outside world-she'd somewhat relaxed and half-recalled a poem she'd heard somewhere once;

 _Dinnae be ye afraid,_

 _If y'all alone._

 _T'is how ye started,_

 _T'is how we gotta go._

She'd idly pondered on the nature of cathedral sewerage. T'was there a degree of benediction? If a priest's touch was blessed... surely t'was holy sh-

Hold. Freeze. Oh thrice damn. Stop the daydreams wee rogue, she fraught smaller, silenter. Sucked in a reserve of breath she didn't have. Mere inches away the priest had squatted in worried search of lower shelves and passed an impressive clap of flatulence. Hectic withered paws patted and tipped shelf contents, had grown more frantic in his quest. The slightest turn of his holiness's head would've had him nose-to-whisker faced by the tetraplegic saucer of the junior rogue hidden in his deskwell.

Best nae linger. She complimented herself on her near perfect stealth-maintained until she'd cracked her skull against desktop in the sudden dive for cover. That she'd not shat herself when the heavy door banged opened ahead of his most unexpected return was commendable and would have certainly negated the thrice-damned sweaty oversuit and booties. The priest was concentrated on the crowded bookcase and he'd shown no obvious mind to intruders. Aye, a close thing, she considered. His Holiness's apparently grand mood was evidenced as he'd whistled old tunes with an uncharacteristic spring in his hurried approach and for this Rindy had near religious gratitude. She'd also appreciated that 'Fortune Our Glory Be in Her' featured a high pitched middle-eight and the Archbishop's rendition was faithful. She'd heard his whistle mere moments before his otherwise disastrous return to his chambers.

An ebb in her fear of discovery filled with new humors-confidence, energy. Stay calm, she decided. Nose wrinkled, fuggin' priests diet was rich, she decided.

"Amen!" the priest cried. He rose with impossible swiftness and a stamp of sandal.

Rindy blenched and her skull smacked diffident oak. She bit her knuckle until she tasted blood, gnashed on the rip of thunder in her head. Her hair stuck to the desktop underside as she grimly coiled to lash out.

The Archbishop wavered, paused, stood confused or suspicious while Rindy balled around her dagger. But the fogie wheezed and steadied himself-in compensation after an unwisely rapid uprightness. A breath, two, and he'd regained some composure and staggered away, bestowed a benedictory kiss on the ornate box of chocolates he'd reclaimed. With halitosis shine and nigh further hesitation he whisked around his desk in a swish of vestments. He held the gift of sweets in gnarled reverence to lead his flight, loath in his haste to close the door. His sinewy hoot of 'Mine T'is a Bounty of Glory' and rhythmic slap of sandals faded into the granite distance.

The young rogue gasped a lifespan and slumped. She gingerly patted her second contusion in as many minutes, winced and gently tugged strands of her hair from the underdesk goo. She twisted up and nosed over the desk, blinked through the clutter at the ajar doorway for another few breaths.

She reassured herself: The priest's behavior supposed success to a certain shapely young cohort-employed coincident and in recent by Rindy-to proffer an unsavory itinerance on the rumored propensities of that very clergybeing. There'd been some concern that the Archbishop had grown pius in the wake of unwholesome public accusations and thence would prove resistant to such wicked worldly temptation. But the rogue had known better. She'd assured her comely co-conspirator that she knew the hopeless pervert in any crowd. And she'd, naturally, been right.

She'd not anticipated the priest's audacity to include subsidy and an unplanned return to his chambers… but things could have gone worse. Had she been caught… or forced to sap unconscious a religious icon in his very own inner sanctum? The hypothetical outrage might see some luckless waif swung from the 'Valley gallows, starved in dungeon murk or simply bagged and weighted for discreet natatory disposal. She didn't linger because the luckless waif bore remarkable resemblance to Rindy Cartrimer. Her fingers dabbed at her head for blood and she credited a lack thereof on the dwarf aspect of her thick skull.

And her thoughts were of dwarvish prose; Rejoice l'il snoop! Holy-roller off to get viced. Ye rogue be nae herebouts afore ye can say 'gettafugout.' A predator confidence curved her lips, Mother's language always lifted her spirits. Rindy flipped a half-hearted salute to prosperity and squirmed out of her hidey hole, whacked her head a third time in the awkward gymnastics of exit but refused further fret. Amen.

Tips and toes across the chamber, palmed and sheathed her dagger. She shouldered against the heavy door, winced at the bone on slate of aged hinges. Lamp flame twitched on the moment draft and agitated the shadows. She paused breathless. Big eyes on everything, she padded back to the desk wary of traps possibly activated by the closure. Satisfied of her precaution she took in the desktop chaos with a glance.

And groaned. The clergy appeared to appreciate professional-grade clutter almost as much as private time with nubile parishioners. She cracked her knuckles, dove in and rifled the mess at her best speed. Documents flashed under her fingers; A grocery list. Orders of Merit. A menu from Thunderbrew's hearth. Some rude art obviously confiscated from lowbrow riffraff. Tobacco (which found a new home in her purse.) Soiled earplugs from the Deeprun.

More Crap. Junk. Garbage. Moot.

Her digits nimbled for hard edges, tested the pull of each drawer with feather tugs. A sudden shark lurch, she flipped a scribbled mass schedule and exposed a silver lockbox exactly as described in the mission brief. She plucked her best lockpick from a braided sideburn and leant down with tongue-trapped focus. A twinge of lilliputian torque, butterfly snick of tiny tumblers and the lid prized opened, held fast on a clever friction brace when pushed full upright.

Inside a gilded journal binder also as expected. Clamshelled, the golden facade unmasked a ring-bound stack of tattered parchment. She fanned the pages with a dance of fingers, denoted certain marks of authenticity just as she'd been instructed. Her gnomish observance absorbed fragments despite a fugacious inspection; "Cleef blood..." "...preserved the faith…" "...of our nobel race." "Sinclair implicated..." "With Great reward and risk to..." "...most generously compensated..." Blah, blah and blah-hokie-fuggin-blah, she scoffed.

Bad Guys, she considered, always kept the best books. T'was ultimately because no one actually considered themselves The Bad Guys. The important folk fully expected praise for their actions or ideals in a future braced with the nobility of hindsight and higher states of logic. Loyalist scribes oft archived their evil little dissuaded by petty contemporary morals.

Hum, she lifted a brow. Seemed to be right about half the time, she admitted. The aged journal was doubtless an epic of betrayal and bravery and Rindy couldn't care less. From her tunic she withdrew the doppelganger binder, discretely borrowed from Mathias immediately after he'd refused to approve the mission. Side-by-side the two were far from perfect dupes. Her sabre-hard gnomish thumbnail jabbed at the original's binder metal, felt just the right give and left smallish indent in solid fuggin' gold. The worthless replacement left to satiate cursory inspections and the real binder emancipated-a prize of tattered papers to placate a sceptical boss and the shiny stuff to soothe her unsavory partners. Sure... the EXACT letter of her mission called for journal and binder delivered intact but she had her own expenses to consider-not to mention her delicate skin-and the real boon was doubtless in the juicy gossip. Mathias would live with the mild disappointment. He'd readily admitted he'd had vast experience with such.

Villainy complete, she released the catch, set the strongbox carefully closed again and slid the schedule parchment back into perfect place. Wiggled her shoulders as she slipped the prize into the clever pouch stitched in her tunic under the left breast. Job done, t'was suddenly high time to be on her insidious way. She'd vaulted the desk in a single padded leap and began to evoke stealth.

She froze. Her brows furrowed and she belayed the spell. Confused, she scanned up a crowded bookcase and centered on the top shelf. Amidst the flimflam of bovine devotion shined a polished onyx statuette. The slender figurine was of partially robed (naturally) elvish femininity, delicate arms outstretched under a splay of slim digits skyward and a gaunt regality midnight rapt to celestial wonders alas undepicted. To Rindy the object glowered back with a glaucous radiance that ghosted when she closed her eyes. An energy cut to her very paralytic depths and left her beguiled and helpless to the moment. She sneered, t'was her thrice-damned head magick triggered... again. Fug li'l ole me.

Rindy shed the trance with a shake of her head. She pivoted on a heel and cast breathless survey back about the office. No… no… and her gaze locked on an epitrachelion draped on an ugly chair shoved forlorn against the wall. The stole was sun-bleached and partly obscured by moldy vestments and thus displayed some neglect-assumed to persist with absence, she hoped. T'was the best she could do.

She snatched the stole, snapped a cloud of mites into the light, spun and stepped up to the bookcase. A hop up to clamp fingertips on the highest shelf she could reach. She winced as hardwood and aged fasteners creaked under her weight as she climbed and held up when the next rung complained a tad too much. Close enough. She'd wound the stole over her hand because her business gloves were fingerless. A strain and reach… she'd barely touched the statuette. Again she jerked and made a solid contact with the second try.

The effigy rocked, teetered... tumbled and Rindy checked the fall with a breathless juggle amidst a squall of dust. She further dared her grip to crook the statue under her arm in a rush, jammed the freed knuckle to her septum and barely stifled a sneeze. A blink to dismiss the fuzz from her vision and she reaffirmed her hold. She crammed the bundle into the free right-side pocket, stole and all and moved her shoulders to secure the object.

Rindy had dared not touch flesh to the statue-not to any object she detected with her head magick. Her historical reactions to direct contact had proven acute and unpredictable. Had she indulged, Rindy might as well summoned the local deacon and curled up for a nap on the desk. Naked-yeah THAT had occurred too, she recalled sourly. Privacy and security were absolute prerequisites to sooth her touchy-feely-magick-mystery compulsions. The holy hornets' nest was not the place and mid-burglary was definitely not the time.

She released her vice and dropped to the balls of her feet, stooped and owled for sounds of the worst. Satiated, she slipped the door and again the thunderclap of hinge rattled her soul. She tipped a furtive gander into the hall: Empty.

Breath in. Her thick fists came together under her chin and she concentrated. Gear and flesh shimmered, shed all color. A moment made chalk and charcoal and she'd vanished into full rogue stealth. Undetectable, invisible to naught but the sharpest of sense or magick. In theory. Breath out.

She shed all lethal compunction to hunker or haste and took up the unhurried cadence of a practiced clandestine transit in retrograde. Ahead, a lifelong of creep through busy, bright halls to a storeroom with her discreet sewer exit. Again she'd don the sweaty foulness of the rubber suit and booties. Slink to escape in an acrid subterrain eternity to where her escape terminated (perhaps not the best word) with a lethal scallywag escort in wait.

She'd already eked a kernel of strategy for murderous dwarves and irascible gangmates. Thought positively, she'd well hatch a plan before the tunnel ended. Some sharp persuasion, a little evasion and speedy griffon abscondence and she'd be tavern-sat and on the prowl for that callow tripod hunk who DESERVED her company for the night. She could already taste the ale on his breath.

T'was necessarily therapeutic; A girl couldn't possibly subsist on thrill and coin alone and stay clear-minded. And-who knew?-there might not always be that firm bed, roof and hearth at the end of the… sewer. She kept well abreast of her loftiest dreams, t'was a big world with much to do and see. Her species-whichever proved dominant-reliably offered at least two centuries to roam wide and do stuff. Rindy was still short of a second decade alive but she'd seen age sap her Mom and Da-

She winced with sudden dread recollection of her Mom and Dad's imminent return home. The parental wrath would be acute and unavoidable once reported was her truancy from the expensive school, seen were the constabulary citations, heard of was the justifiable neighborly outrage and detected was the inevitable damage and theft of household goods associated with her entertainment of questionable acquaintances. Rindy decided she might just grow to appreciate the fuggin' sewer.

Concentrate, she chided, best ye served as a tiny spot of nothing for a while, t'ain't ye here, t'ain't ye there, ye a rogue on a mission. She stepped into the hallway and began her long sneak to solicitude. In a wake of ghostly departure the Archbishop's office was left emptier than one might've reasonably expected.

* * *

The beaten warrior returned alone from the storm.

Whitewashed and transmountain wind beaten he'd staggered off the griff from Menethil Harbor with an oath on his lips and anger in his heart. He'd cursed first the witless beast that, on the last leg of a long journey, had blithely flown through the heart of dismal winter welcome. Cursed too that the infamous climate rarely offered a sublime reception. Be it damp, snowbound, icy, raw, frigid, gelid, bitter or any delightful combination thereof Dun Morogh weather was typically a critical impact on the constitution. The native dwarves had seventy insipid words for cold. They'd formed fourteen terms for frostbite and had no less than thirty-six types of ale prescribed specifically to combat inevitable winter depression-said depression described by twenty phrases in the Greater Dwarvish.

Gnomish too had appropriate terms the warrior wouldn't dare repeat in any civilized company. Though no sane being might honestly describe the subterrain city of Ironforge as civilized, at least warm and terminal could be accurately applied and that mattered a tad.

The surly tempest had spat griffon and gnome rider nearly upon the city wall. The winged bitch had curled and careened blind through the ice-caked Skygate with inches to spare. She'd flared every possible feather of drag once inside over the Great Forge and still orbited twice before slowed to land with any modicum of dignity. At the roost the 'Griff Master had thoughtfully hired extra hands to chisel arrivals from their saddles.

Once on stable ground the warrior had clobbered the imbecile griffon with his frozen gauntlet. His departure was an indignant push through the crowds as the Griffon Master raged and threatened to his back. He was again inundated, then by the fugues of the bloated Ironforge population. Despite a famous dwarf bluster the city was acutely crowded as her citizens had sought business indoors from a latest blizzard. Sadly, fifteen minutes walked from the Great Forge proved an anticlimactic highlight of the warrior's four 'griff, two boat and three day 'strider-ride journey from Kalimdor to his long-unglimpsed front door.

He'd shut out the clash of boulevard, slammed the bolt home. Blank, he'd silently shed a mismatch of tattered expediency and desperation at the foyer. Sighed: T'was days short of a full year since he'd last been on this landing.

He'd not departed so alone or uncelebrated. A year marked as all but wasted he feared. He caressed tension from the neckline to furrowed brow of his bald scalp. He stood blind and dumb among discarded equipment, dulled on his household. A year squandered: His edge allayed. Falters in sight of goals. Lives wasted. He'd been detained, nearly exposed and all but broken.

His house: Expensive furniture, gaudy nicknacks, his thrice-damned possessions stared back. The pricey suite with the sophisticated kitchen, multiple bedrooms balconied to the Grand Avenue in upscale Third Tier Ironforge. The pointless prestige that taunted his sanity. T'was a temple of torture he'd maintained, this thrice-damned tidy little hole. He'd not kept image snaps on the walls as so many fools did-and just as well; He didn't think he could stomach HER thrice-damned gaze at the moment or her judgement and ghost. His frown twitched as he realized the haunted abode but a vapor too... HE'D not called a place home since the Fall of Gnomeregan. The costs, impact on his reputation... he'd never overcome the-

Stop.

He tucked in his composure and the emotion retreated far behind his big eyes, compressed to a spark and extinguished. His own face peered back from between cloaks on the mirror set on the rack wall. "You're not a bad man," he assured himself. He adjusted the dirty collar and picked at a foreign tangle on his pitch goatee.

He'd never doubted lives would be lost. One cultivated external relationships to secure resources. Resources were to be consumed when results justified means. Results bespoke of well-placed ambitions. Ambition for his theories demanded sacrifice. Sacrifice required calculation and likely some atonement. Two loyal people had perished in bloody Dire Maul, his mate and the guild leader-he'd pronounce them heroes. Two more guildies were somehow lost on an expedited journey home-best attributed to be well-intentioned klutzes. Two more hadn't returned from an admittedly impulsive quest for revenge-chalk them up among the victims of betrayal.

MOST of his folk had returned intact over a week prior.

His guildmates would expect sentiment and he'd make the right noises for soft hearts, console the loved ones. The warrior could frown and shed tears, grovel and whine, eulogize and lambaste on demand with little effort. He'd sure emphasize the betrayal, the apathy of others that led to such losses. Name names. Vengeful mourners, seekers of truth and legacy and angry kin made for quite the motivated recruits-even when emotion imperilled individual judgement. Folk just thought like that, he reminded himself. Lives were wasted because the rewards didn't QUITE justify the costs. Alas vendetta was easily steered. With his theories eventually proven a few casualties would be inconsequential. Bought for duty, anger or greed lives on Azeroth were cheap.

The beaten warrior's grin was vague. He'd returned battered and empty-handed but FAR better informed than he'd departed. The data uncovered exposed an echo, just a pulse in the complex tissue but promise of a vital crux, a central point that controlled all. He'd just need follow the vein of evidence to the heart of the matter. For the rest, Binoff Cartrimer had long ago learned to wield-and twist-the blade.

He blinked out of his insipid reflections. He'd absently wandered into the great room and sat the family table, elbow rested on the satchel at his hip. A quick glance over his shoulder verified that he'd organized and pegged his ragged equipment, ritual of another life. Spell broken, he unfastened his buckle, wrapped the scabbard in his belt and tossed the entire filthy affair on the trestle. The metal clanked, scratched finish and scattered clumps of filth on the fine surface. He ducked the strap from his shoulder and held the frayed canvas ruck up. His head tilted in predatory confusion at the satchel. His mate's pack... and with the owner dead in Dire Maul t'was his last vestige of... her. Yes, he should feel something.

And Binoff did: He felt tired, pissed and frustrated. A tad worried. He wanted a bath. He released the strap. The shapeless mass clunked down next to the other pauper debris. He closed out the room for a few moments, rested his head, started slightly from the tingle of stubble on on his palm. A sneer in recollection of four days rode from Auberdine, flea-circus tavern charm with the rurals, rangers and rubes of western Kalimdor. He'd bartered or abandoned all but the most essential of things enroute for the smallest of comforts. He'd spent days seasick and saddlesore. He'd accepted four duels-one unregulated and to the death-and he still hadn't cheered up.

Anger and worry about the Guild: He'd not received a warlock summon back to Stormwind, even after he'd scryed his intentions. Binoff had thrice-damn bled for Mayday yet his guildmates just let him walk home. He was an officer in a Gold-band guild! The others had taken their portals home from Feathermoon Stronghold when the locals started to whine about trespasses and penalties. He, as the responsible leader, stayed to... supervise the rescue and smooth things over. He'd used that last scrying bowl to advise Mayday that he and Grammy were ready to return promptly. The expected warlock summons-a simple, cheap spell meant to instantly transport he and Grammy to the guild hall-failed to eventuate.

Without the means to seek alternative transport they'd been forced to trod the long way home like guildless newbies. He'd nearly killed Grammy because the dwarf priest had forced his ridiculous ideals of companionship on several occasions.

Binoff Cartrimer wasn't in the best of moods.

* * *

The Old Town Barracks had been hammered onto the ruins of an old keep left disused by city expansion. The budget-minded citizenry had applauded such frugal reuse of veteran resources and the preservation of such... classic architecture. The redesignated Barracks was to provide shelter and support to those celebrated soldiers of the Alliance who'd found themselves estranged from their peacetime haunts by distance, politics or unfortunate psychology. Between the wars the numbers of prerequisite candidates dwindled and potential occupants had always been exceptions in the ranks, so the Old Town Barracks would be naturally luxurious and recuperative so uncrowded.

The idea had been the brainchild of Bolla Valewarder, Fifth Ward night elf councilor-at-large who'd rode a slew of similar brilliant schemes to far more potent political affiliations in Ironforge. Of course his departure and disassociation came long before the barracks project was complete and more flexible management chiseled away at the ideals over the course of the refit.

The placement of the Barracks in a rough Stormwind neighborhood was happenstance-but property value in the gilded human capital was far from inconsequence. The incumbents advantaged Old Town's less desirable real estate values and expanded the requirements of hospice to the incorrigible of personality and history and saw the most bachelor, transient and oft troublesome of Alliance soldiery assigned to the Old Town Barracks. Such beings who persisted expedient of trouble deep into peacetime were typically extreme examples, so berth in the Old Town barracks promised a... colorful experience.

Less public and less popular organizations had too sued for some floorspace in Alliance facilities. One particular was SI:7. Covert intelligence typically avoided pomp and polish, was unpopular in peace and was in turn despaired by politics. All parties involved were best gruntled to have their spies and thieves relegated to the modest bowels of the Old Keep.

There were few surprised to hear rumor that murky rogue trainers and suppliers favored the roughcut and roomy location as ideal for their business as well.

Arthur Huwe was one of these less vocal but well storied of inhabitants. He'd bivied among the ex-cons and lifers on the west side since his marital difficulties and taught a little Rogue infamy to pass the quiet time. Arthur had had a long career, was semi-retired and had seen many proteges off into the big world. He'd too mourned-oft proudly-to see some of their names added to unmarked ledgers in the SI:7 basement archives. But with age came disillusionment and a particularity about who he tutored... and in this he was troubled.

Since the last war he'd seen a drastic drop off in recruit quality caused by a politically-driven quota of diversity and acceptance in lesser candidates. Too him only those who'd met his fairly precise specifications were suitable and he had the hardcore, long-learned and thrice-damned experience in the bloody field to know. Of course he demanded raw talent and a hard drive in his students but he also expected certain… classic traits.

Arthur Huwe was a racist and a chauvinist. If some considered his views outdated or repugnant he had just remind them of the uneven record held by the lesser races of the Alliance and the dire statistics of females in the art of subterfuge (beyond missions required of feminine wiles and enacted with masculine backup.) His patience was constantly tweaked as his spineless leaders placed an increased dependency and showered significant reward on lesser races and the fairer sex. He'd made such quite clear to his superiors and they'd no choice but to accept his rights as inalienable.

Still, they had to push his buttons and preach their thrice-damned noble ideals. So came a vapid diversity of unworthy students and he did what he could to weed out the worst of the lot.

His biggest current challenge was the pissant half-breed trainee whose thrice-damned mother had some unfathomable sway among the leadership and, inevitably, Mathias Shaw. When came his turn, Huwe had-of course-professionally administered the first lesson to the brat. He'd then required an explanation and confirmation to continue. Management had said that such records were, naturally, under royal seal and he'd been quietly rebuffed. This outraged him. He'd consequently failed the dwarf-gnome mutt outright and packed her right back to the cadre office confident that she'd be dismissed to some clerical dungeon.

Mathias Shaw had trained her himself. Huwe had been flabbergasted. He'd missed the next three days with chest pains and the healer was not kind in his pronouncements. So he'd delegated his discord, since Arthur Huwe was not alone in his more enlightened views. He shared his struggle with a small but loyal retinue of fellow soldiers and worthy tutees. He would not go quietly and they could shove that-

The very wench hopped from the stairway and angled serenely toward him. He made theater of his imminent departure for lunch as she approached. He leant over his stand and tapped an unprimed pen over a blank receipt and pointedly ignored her for three long minutes. She waited wordless, hip at a cant, arms crossed and with that all-too-familiar self righteous twist on her ugly half-bred mug. He decidedly made her wait a little longer.

With a huff he acknowledged her with a purist dignity, "Yeah?" He frowned down his nose on her rounded features, arms akimbo.

She gave him a small, innocent, smile. "Sloan said ye got a new recipe," she rumbled.

"T'is quite expensive," he noted helpfully. "Only sold one," he pretended to consult his memory.

"Eh," she shrugged. "Got a voucher."

Huwe frowned and straightened. "I gotta verify-"

Rindy held out a small roll of parchment, whuffed a recalcitrant breath and tapped her foot, jutted opposite her hip. Huwe felt his cheeks grew hot and his nostrils flared as he stared at a blur of script in her fingers. The half breed had DARED express annoyance to a Senior Rogue? He was true pure human and a full member of the organization! Worse yet he knew exactly what the scroll she offered contained. He snatched the offensive object out of her chubby fingers and vexed crimson. He didn't allow his hand to shake. Eventually he jammed the note into a pocket and cleared his throat. He poked through his fanny pack where he kept only the most vital of lesson plans, advanced tools and rare recipes. As he searched he heard her shuffle.

"Who got the other one?" she asked.

"Cannae say," he insisted.

"Well," she admitted. "If it were the wendigo-lookin' feller missin' teeth ye go recycle that scroll. He ain't gonna use the enchant."

Huwe paused and squinted.

"Heard he got inna accident," she stated simply and looked bored.

Huwe well-feigned ignorance over affront in his normal surly demeanor. He'd finally found the proper recipe and held the disposable scroll out. He frowned deeply.

She reached but he pulled the script back. The face she made rankled him.

"Cannae 'magine ye thinkin' kid." He dismissed and shook the recipe scroll. The half breed didn't budge or reach again. "Now. Ye got a quarter hour…" he checked his chronometer. "Till'bout six bells before the scroll dissolves… ain't my fault if-"

"Thanks hey," Rindy smiled and snatched. She turned and bounced toward the entrance arch.

Arthur Huwe watched the half-breed female, another example SI:7's insistence on impurity and half measures in the ranks, take her leave. Mayhaps he'd reached his age of tolerance and t'was high time to think on true retirement.

* * *

For the life of a single breath a moonless bowl of stars spun framed in luminesced deciduous canopy. But sky wasn't possible sunk so low in a pitch marble radial burrowed core-deep under that ruin-littered beach and unquiet sea. No stars shown through a fog of icy unclean death in a damned depths. T'was wretched witchfire glared off the razors of naga wrath and blubberous unnamable filth on a path of desperate, seaweed-draped passages. Evil was exposed by rare ebb tide in its broken temple of crustacean acolytes. Soapy foam under mandibles, claws clicked and pellucid horror slithered from the damp surrounds of twisted and forgotten realms. Leathery eggs nested, once bred of a hungry maternity to be awakened by an encroachment of warm blood. An enraged terrapin endured an epoch of elder torture to confront they who might dare her frothed nightmare. Deep in the blaggard heart shimmers a reward of wealth and deliverance that insidious summons the salt-pickled rictus of vengeful prior adventurer corpses if disturbed. The final bow of jewel crowned heads to old threats unearthed. Death, no matter how alien, tireless awaits a scent of mortal blood in an unaired brine of evil.

Awake now.

Rindy pulled herself together. She'd fanned her arms in some forgotten instinct of black panic until her palm met a sharp edge and she'd started fully aware. She was prone surrounded by onyx shards on the cool grass. T'was dark enough for the faint wink of a few brighter stars through the wispy leaves and over rustic rooflines, as The Lady or Li'l Blue had yet risen to blot them out. The natural phosphors of preferred Mage Quarter illumination were sleep dimmed in the late hour and there was no one around.

She lay among the remains of the statue stolen from the Archbishop's office... because of course she did. She'd hoped to sell the statuette once she had what she needed but alas she'd busted any hope of profit. Again. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes, guttural groaned and still chilled by a distant subterranean damp she'd envisioned. A long moment as the wraiths of her head magick fled and she sat upright, cradled her lacerated palm in her lap.

Rindy actually looked forward to her Mother's return. Succao had sent word that Father had used his team's last scrying bowl to announce imminent departure from Kalimdor. She'd heard that most of his insurrection had returned safe from their Dire Maul quest at the start of the week. There was controversy, there was hesitation. T'was odd that no one had stopped by... but of course she'd been home minimally and had probably just missed them. Mayhaps Father would lighten up now that he'd had his expedition to research his stupid theories.

She'd used the last year well. True, she'd not troubled with the snobby academic basics school and she was certain to get it in the neck for that. But she'd trained three-years worth and that much more, she'd found more of the THINGS: The onyx statue was but the latest of a dozen artifacts she'd recognized with her head magick.

She blinked and caught up with the moment. She leant up on her elbows and looked about. The Mage Quarter parkland was sparsely populated at the best times and virtually deserted after twelve gongs-bells in Stormwind, she reminded herself. She'd brought the last three magick THINGS to the park. T'was lonely and t'was dark and not an overly fragile environment. Unhindered by trivial concerns she'd seen things.

An early treasure, an old brass pick, had shown her a Deadmines she'd never heard of, even in rumor: A labyrinth of angry pirates and Defias thugs in unimagined strength. Secret treaties of whispered cancers that wormed deep under Westfall and a blaggard monarch who plied pen and sword in his ship's private cabin sunk somewhere deep in the hills. Of course she'd awoke with the pick buried in an indelicate spot on the Statue of Elune. What if someone had happened on her in that state..?

The broken spear had told her about Hakkar and voodoo corruption in the swamps, AND left her stupefied for half a bell and with that odd accent in her voice for a solid day. A rusty dagger storied the ghosts of an old keep lost in the crags of Silverpine and she'd been haunted until the next dawn. She'd shouted Scarlet hymns at the top of her voice-misadventure that had lasted until the old relic cross had rusted to dust in hours. She was told names and incantations but they gave her headaches and sometimes her tongue fits because she'd learned in the alien languages. Some folk didn't have normal mouths or breathed... air. Elementals were the worst.

And with every THING she found she grew more sensitive to the magick. She also had a strong urge to tell other folk and make them find THINGS. She knew that but didn't quite understand what it meant. She hoped her Mother could sort it out... else Rindy might crack up and go to live with the crazy drunks in the bottom of Ironforge. She didn't know why she thought that either, but she did. Meanwhile, her rogue skills had outgrown her Stormwind tutors and she was ready for Ravencrest.

So Rindy had grand news to welcome her Mother home with. Days short from a year abroad and that would end soon. She would go into the dungeons, join the guild and bring all that she knew to help Mayday. Mother and daughter would fight in the deadliest, darkest, hardest and most profitable places. T'was where she wanted to go. She had nowhere to go but up.

Instead Rindy Cartrimer would take the worst news of her life into the little.

* * *

Binoff became aware of movement on the second floor above. So she was home. He checked the chronometer on his wrist and lifted a brow. His travels had outpaced the sun at least once and he'd never slept well on the move anyways. Again he yawned, and grimaced: He didn't want to do this without a nap. No choice now that she was aware of his return, he'd made plenty enough noise. Confrontation was inevitable. With a groan he lifted himself off the bench and limped around to the kitchen torrent. He kept an ear to the stairway as he scrubbed his hands and washed his face. The only towel evident was buried under a pile of dirty dishes and cutlery, he was too tired to explore the pantry, so he used his sleeve. Sat back with eyes dull and hands together on the opposite side of the family table, his back to the mess in the kitchen. He deigned to sit the high-backed chair at the head as was his place. Perhaps his daughter would appreciate such the gesture and make this all easier.

"Rindy!" he called.

He'd have to display an array of subtlety and humility to salvage the next few days in Mayday. He WAS worried about the thrice-damned lack of a guild warlock summons-likely that meant the other powers in the guild had gained from his absence and were in a froth. HIS faction was in obvious disadvantage after the year-long exodus. Grovelled returns with tails tucked were naturally unpopular among those who adventured for a living-and most folks were not fans of dead friends. This meant nearly half the guild who'd followed his rebellion to Feralas-his strongest supporters among them-might have been rendered impotent, possibly excised. Those left behind in Stormwind likely held a reasonable, justifiable grudge for the departure, expenditures and eventual deaths. Binoff was confident to listen and negotiate a recovery; He was an expert at agreement without conviction. He was significantly motivated, as well, to NOT waste more years and funds to gain favor among and groom the resources of another guild.

An ear tipped upward, Binoff speculated to the muffled thump of Rindy's balcony slider through the ceiling. An eventual crash from the alley so evidenced the escape of a latest delinquent. His daughter maintained a parade of turbulent, short-lived tristes as a reliable spark to ignite ugly maternal rows. She appeared to have stayed in form in his absence.

He sighed, waited and reddened, fists clenched. Rindy acted out with a fair persistence and with a slew of themes. Three schools had dismissed her, each more expensive than the last. She had a significant record with the Stormwind authorities and knew most of Ironforge law enforcement on a first-name basis. She wouldn't be allowed back in Darkshire while the current sheriff still presided. She kept with a loose circle of low-spoke and reprehensible dregs from the choicest of bad neighborhoods. She had somehow convinced them that she was an urchin savant and not simply a spoiled sociopath from the Third Tier who could see the Bronzebeard Gardens from her bedroom window. He'd even heard echoes of cartel contacts, to which he'd particularly not cherished the implication.

Teeth clenched, Binoff seethed. Had the thrice-damned half-breed gone into Dire Maul and not his mate… He lanced the speculation as emotional and unconstructive.

The need to split Mayday had perhaps doomed his task to failure, he admitted. A flaw he'd need to correct. His immediate reception in the guild hall once he got around to Stormwind would tell him much more. Grammy should report in soon...

A door slammed. A shadow paused a breath at the second floor balustrade with a rustle of fabric. A hammer of big feet on the stairs, the flash of hairy legs and flare of nightgown. She held up at the curve of banister on the landing where she hugged the gargoyle bust prototypical of her Mother's unfathomable motifs. Rindy's hair was a greasy squirrel of hasty braids, her face pursed a freckled chisel of teenage arrogance. She scanned the great room before she locked her gaze with his. "Sorry," she pouted artistically. "Hadda knew y'all be home I'dda cleant up the place."

"Don't speak that gibberish!" Binoff caviled. He ducked behind a hand on his forehead to hide further reaction. When he eventually recovered his daughter smiled and held her elbows. He'd swallowed his ire but his daughter preempted.

"Where is Mom?" she piqued.

He looked askance with a breath. "Rindy," he requested gently as he could. "Come in here."

She frowned at his tone, made a moment uncertain. A squint and a small delay before she trounced off the landing. She diverted to the kitchen and looked back. "Thirsty?" she prompted.

"Did you leave anything?" he blurted. Winced.

"Some moonberry," she rumbled and chose to ignore the slight. "I think there's honeymint-"

"Berry is fine," Binoff asserted.

Rindy swiped three mugs from the pile with her shirt. "Had I known I'd picked up somethin'," she explained as she worked. "Maybe some Fizzbang?"

He nodded and squinted at the third cup. "I used the scrying bowl a week ago," he protested. "Guild knew my plans."

"Heard something like that," she mummed vaguely as she gained the table, passed him his mug, placed the other opposite. She plopped into his high-backed chair at the head, quickly peered at the little door through the pantry arch. When she looked back her stare repeated her first question. She kicked her feet on the trestle top and crossed her ankles.

"Thoughtful," he hedged, a finger traced the ceramic handle.

"Where is Mom?" she lingered carefully on each word.

He hesitated, lips parted and darned his fingers for a breath or two before his hand groped blindly over. He patted at her arm before he clasped and stared at his daughter. She putted at the motion, released her mug to, in turn, touch him back. He flinched from the oddity of her four digits and a gnome's sabre-nail thumb in a dwarvish scale. Her oversize lips drew taunt at his reaction and she pulled both her arms away from him. Stared hard.

Binoff touched his forehead again and took a breath. Met her gaze.

Rindy's eyes were cast dwarven apart and gnome huge, in the same gray as her Mother's, under a wide heavy brow on a big round face. Her chin was small, her nose broad and thick, cheeks high and bright. Her hair grew gnome-fast and in dwarf places, such as her chin and arms-never a case with pure gnomides. Her shoulders were wide and straight as her Mother's, her arms slightly long in her Father's way. Her female characteristics went with a tendency toward the dwarvish, which unfortunately meant exaggerated. Binoff was barely tolerant of her appearance despite years grown used to her. He'd best described her once, among comrades, as a pre-contact gnome's idea of a dwarf-such mayhaps drawn on a torchlit cave wall by an idiot child.

He was confounded by her popularity with males, especially humans. It was likely because she rarely said no, he figured. And Grammy… well Grammy had his foibles-a large part of Binoff's assurance of his loyalty-and convenience as Grammy wasn't allowed within earshot of a school or orphanage in the three cities. Her Mother had been infinitely irked by her daughter's promiscuity and would have unmanned Grammy had she been made wise of THAT history. Binoff took his Daughter's urges for what they were-cries for attention-and HE didn't care if the half-breed fugged half the 'Kingdoms; Rindy kept those habits to infuriate her Mother. The pile of unwashed dishes, the muddy footprints and signs of a frequent uncouth entertainment of disreputable strangers in HIS house during his year away-not to mention her mid-afternoon sloth-irked her Father.

Binoff Cartrimer ground his teeth and looked away. He couldn't fathom his thought process before the Fall. Family bliss? A substitute for the loneliness of his obsessive and generally unpopular research? A need to spread his seed, his name? With a dwarf?

Rindy had faded in stages before him, her breath caught in her throat. The half-breed held her Father fixed with her Mother's gray. The face, that affronted him to no end, slackened as the girl digested the unspoken with a gnomish disconnect in her poise and dwarvish emotion in her eyes. "How?" she hissed, grown palid.

"A wipe in Dire Maul," Binoff replied offhand, though with appropriate tragedy and compassion in his voice. He offered his hand across the trestle while he pondered his historical decisions, his temporary insanity. "She wasn't all we lost," he heard himself add.

"You killed her," Rindy stated simply.

He froze. "I did NOT," he protested without pause and with more defensiveness than he'd preferred. "We HAD what we sought. We HAD it," his eyes clicked up, locked on her. Softened, "Your mother was killed by betrayal and incompetence."

"Who?" She quizzed him with blurred eyes.

"No one of OUR team," he explained. "We got bad intelligence, we got overwhelmed," he looked far away. "Working blind. We trusted..." His knuckles whitened on his barely-touched drink. "Feathermoon refused to seriously aid us. They sent a minimal team of old fools and trusted a criminal to lead the rescue."

"Rescue?" his Daughter demanded.

"Bixie, Grammy and Kandre," Binoff dirged. "Separated and trapped after the wipe."

"And..?" Rindy had stood and turned her back.

"Grammy made it out," he said. Blinked, went to say more, but held up and chewed on his knuckle.

Rindy saucered, puffed up in a flare that was no escalation of sadness.

He nodded at the reaction. Understood. He looked away.

"Who's in charge of Mayday?" she managed within a small onset of sobs.

"I don't yet know," he admitted sourly. "I came straight home."

"Commendable," she grunted.

Binoff's eyes slid at her. She'd used a Gnomish adjective for complex options that bore no significant effect-ill or otherwise-to an operation and was thence more trouble to design out than simply retain. The sarcasm was clear in their remarkably concise language. She didn't believe him. Her cheeks were a crimson shelf for tears, fingers intertwined, shoulders shook. But no pool of trauma, her glare was hard. As sharp and tensile as what she'd meant in Gnomish: Thanks for nothing.

Binoff opened his mouth to comment.

Rindy snatched the strap across the table and dragged the bag to her chest.

He gave a soft look. "Take your time with this," he offered. He elbowed with a feigned lack of concern at the satchel. "Uh, just take care. Some of that is quite exp-"

"At least," Rindy quaked, her voice a turbine of rage, red-rimmed eyes gone huge. "I'm not the biggest bastard in THIS room," she gritted. She jumped up, arms crushed her mother's satchel at her chest. Her action was violent and impulsive enough that her knee smacked the trestle bench. The stalwart aged wood creaked but stayed intact.

Binoff lifted a brow. The subjective vulgarity she'd used could refer to disowned offspring OR, in mecca-slang, a mechanical sexual aid designed in simulation of a biological partner. Contextually this was unclear unless the tense was intimate as implied. If such was so the Gnomish for 'room' so modified was oft used to describe the first-stage waste buffer for a gnomish latrine, and a 'Cartrimer' was a mechanism (Binoff's Father had developed) to improve flush irrigation through the very same device-which served to assuage the discrepancy by personal reference. Gnomish implications: Binoff was a dildo accessory built on a toilet. Or an unclaimed runoff of raw offal. OR Binoff's own Father had planned his son as one or all of the above objects.

The accusation was (naturally) cloaked in an understandably emotional tone that mayhaps assured an uninitiated listener that her choices came from mere grammatical errors. Binoff knew better, had heard worse from her lips and chose to ignore the slight. His Daughter was indeed a talented verbal pugilist-no one could debate that. As she stormed toward the kitchen he speculated on a preponderance of headaches in the near future. More lawyers' bills mayhaps. He'd need a strategy, else he'd not be able to concentrate-

She turned on a heel-left, stopped. Swung right. A hand reached awkward around the satchel for an empty bottle on the torrent counter. Stopped. Held in a bloodless clench. She half-stooped, clutched her Mother's favorite satchel and an empty bottle,

"Perhaps you should sit back down dear," her Father suggested. Another lift of brow. He leant aside to allow the bottle to spin past his head and shatter somewhere in the great room beyond. Rindy raged anew at the clean miss, her face was a ruddy scrunch of anger and sorrow confused. She spun again and stomped off under the arch to the pantry. She lifted upright a burly, errant arm as she went and cleared the counter of its collection of dirty dishes as she passed.

Binoff winced at the shatter.

"Rindy!" Binoff started to protest. Cringed as everything in even the loosest proximity of his daughter's tirade rattled, wobbled or cracked. She whipped open the rearmost door in the pantry and slammed into the tiny room revealed. Binoff sighed and rubbed his head.

* * *

Into the little she went. She swung the portal shut and sat on the slick, cold seat. Her awkward elbows brushed the walls of the cramped space of gnomish design. She hugged her knees, tucked into a single quake and sob mass, vaguely aware of a distant rush of subterranean streams far below and a slight draft up the back of her gown. She looked down to see tears on porcelain. Mom… Mom… and she was… suddenly blank.

She pulled the satchel into her lap. Stared. Something drew her out of herself. Her vision was clear without the tears, breath unhindered by hiccups and throat formerly constricted by grief. When she centered, her Mother's face was a visage as exact as an image-snap, as if she sat in the little with her Daughter. The last time THAT had been… the time Rindy had nicked herself with a second-hand dagger. The subsequent symptoms of the unknown poison used by the previous owner (likely diluted by age) aggressively purged Rindy's guts over three very memorable days. Mom had provided soup, water and support and they'd joked about it for weeks after. There HAD to be better memories, she chided herself.

Odd. The visage was so clear: Mother's jewelry, her tattoos, a scent of that thrice-damned tauren liquor she liked so much on her mustache. She'd dabbed her daughter's forehead with the fuzzy purple yeti cloth and sung that old rhyme under her breath. Odd, because the memory wasn't the point. Her hand wasn't the point but... Nae, under her hand... the bag. Nae, IN the bag. Rindy rifled the pack, jerked free a parchment-wrapped object. She let the bag fall to the floor and held her prize on her knees. She whispered Mother's old song and pulled at the parchment. The object, a tiny carving of a naga in jade, rolled free and fell into her open palm, her chest rose as she steeled herself. The parchment fell from her lap.

 _May ogres laid low and flowers be bloomed,_

 _Thee must suffer and heed the worthy Attuned._

Rindy Cartrimer traveled a thousand miles, lived a thousand lifetimes and snapped back to reality before the discarded parchment had settled at her toes.

"Trap," She blinked, eyes focused well beyond. "They stealth up the ramp," she hissed. "Gotta be five to open." She, audience to the pageant, evaluated the performance. "Din't shatter the crystals, t'is how ye fugged up," she whispered. The actors depart, puppet strings grew slack. The lights fade. "T'is how ye died Mom."

Blackflash.

His hand reached out. Blood on the wall, from the stone. Ogres roar and flowers die. Mad he screamed and then he ran. He always runs because he's something different. You will know. The pet would have saved them.

Blackflash.

She shook her head. The naga tumbled onto the bag at her feet.

She had all she needed from the relic. Her tears, her sorrow returned in a wave. Again herself, she wondered where she'd be in a year. Anywhere but here, she decided and she cried a little more.

* * *

Binoff was squatted on the floor as he distractedly picked for salvageable remains in the pile of ceramic shards. He paused and glared when the front door again loosed the chaos of Ironforge into his home. He turreted on the invader until the bench creaked. He stood and kicked the rest of the shards against the counter base and lifted a brow.

"Got anything to drink?" asked Grammy the dwarf priest.

Binoff stared and held fast until Grammy seemed about to gobble. Relented with a sneer and nod. Waved him down. His hand came from his tunic with a small bottle and he stomped to the trestle. Drank deep before he passed the bib. "Well?" he growled and sat. Ignored the return offer so the dwarf set the bottle on the table between them. Binoff checked for the possibility of residual tears.

"T'was true," Grammy moaned. "Talked to Succao. Rozen and Styne are NOT here." He shrugged, "No one seen'em. They never came through."

"Fug all!" Binoff rubbed his head. A fist squeezed bloodless held at shoulder height.

Grammy winced, darned digits on the table. Added quickly, "I talked to… our friend in common." He shook his head, clasped the bottle again. "They never showed at the meet point either and…"

"And SHE'S righteously indignant," Binoff asserted, hissed the pronoun. "Because we got nothing," he gritted. He glowered at the dwarf.

"You think I'm right?" Grammy ventured, somewhat meek.

"About that hunter?" Binoff gritted. "If so, get our folk talking to Steamwheedle."

"They don't quite get along," the dwarf mewed.

"Then WE'LL talk to the fuggin' slavers," the gnome hissed. "The human is a louse. A fuggin' nobody. We'll never find him on all of Azeroth! You ARE sure?"

"Steamwheedle, absolutely," the priest soothed.

"Tell them to talk gold," Binoff determined. "That's all those fuggin' slavers know."

Grammy nodded. "I have-ahem-a little good news."

Binoff lifted an impatient brow.

"Our folk got open arms," the dwarf announced. "The Guild's glad to have us back."

Binoff appeared but adequately mollified.

"You still have pull," the priest added. "There enough loyal that-"

"Who's in charge?" Binoff demanded.

"Succao... popular as always, but he's weak." Grammy reported. "The Guild ain't done a THING 'cept maintain and moan in the whole year."

"Blythe his second?" Binoff tossed a hand.

"Of course," Grammy smirked. "Someone gotta hold his chain… Without Kandre and Bixie… they all done with infighting. Want a whole guild. Succao got them back on planning 'Core runs. Our folk come back and we suddenly got the numbers..."

"Fuggin' 'Core," the gnome groaned. He stood upright and pointed a finger, "tell our contact about the hunter. You can leave out your part, I'll vouch." He took another belt before his bottle vanished in his tunic. "Maybe we can still salvage..." His voice faded.

The dwarf and gnome stopped and turreted their gaze to the rear archway.

The young dwarf/gnome stood there, slumped against the wall. Regarded the duo with a scarlet beetle of brows. One hand grasped the tail of her nightgown and tamped at her eyes.

"How long have you been there?" Binoff gruffed.

His daughter ignored the gnome, glared at the dwarf. "Ye was with her?" she asked with a slight tremble to her Low Common. "When happened?"

"Your Mother died heroically," Grammy soothed in accented Gnomish. "We were betrayed." He tried a sad smile with reassurance in his eyes. "If you need anything dear. A talk or a hug…"

"Oh thae, I'm sure," the half-breed scorned, her manner and poise made the dwarf back away. She stomped from the arch and stalked past her Father and the priest. Hands fisted, eyes lined red, made her way to the foyer.

"Where are you going?" Binoff asked. Flicked debris from his fingers and his hand brushed the scabbard on the table. His tone was not perfect sincerity or concern nor unexpected.

"Stormwind," Rindy said, squared to him with her back to the door. "The Guild."

"To do what?" her Father groaned upright. His hand settled on the hilt. His eyes maintained soft but didn't divert. He pulled the scabbard as he rounded the trestle. Stopped front and center, billboarded over Grammy, where there was no obstruction between he and his Daughter at the door. "Dear. This is traumatic. Think before you act," he suggested with an artful twinge of concern. His dominant hand stood stationed, offhand a finger upright as he considered her thoughtfully. "And about what you might say," he added more quietly.

Grammy had stood upright, hands free, cheeks ashen.

Rindy blinked, but her face was unmoved. She tipped her head, leant nonchalantly against garments hung on the foyer wall. A tear traced her cheek and she smiled. Obscured by the drape and shadow her nimble gnome fingers wrapped the haft of the axe that was always there.

"Who betrayed Mom?" she asked. "Humans and some hunter?"

"A human hunter," Grammy corrected ambivalently.

Rindy screwed up her face, shook her head.

A growl from the gnome and the Grammy cringed, zipped up. Binoff waved a dismissive hand. "What does this matter?"

"Because I'm going to kill him…" Rindy explained simply. "Uh, t-them," she amended less certainly.

"Leave it to us," Binoff bluffed, face a mask. "We're looking into it."

Rindy held a moment. Glared. She continued her tasks.

"Why the Guild?" Binoff reiterated.

The girl had lost some bluster but her hidden hand remained unmoved. "I'm gonna claim Mom's raid slot. Joining Mayday."

"You aren't old enough," Binoff protested weakly. "You haven't the-"

"It's tradition and I won't take no," she insisted. "Mom's dead. They can't say no."

Binoff harrumphed. "I don't concur," he crossed his arms.

"I don't care," his Daughter retorted.

"Fine," Binoff nodded, waved her off and turned back to the trestle. "Best arrange for the Guild barracks. If you have any stuff-"

"There's nothing I want here," she sneered. "Any more questions?" She glowered, twisted and similarly invited comment from Grammy. The priest ducked away.

"Guilds can always use rogues." Binoff shrugged, "Have at it, Daughter dearest." He looked over his shoulder, "Just don't…" he struggled a moment. "Don't be... a problem."

Rindy smirked, lifted a favorite foul gesture and wiggled on an oversized pair of leathers under her nightie, stepped into a pair of her Mother's old boots. Rifled through the gear on the foyer. She draped a tunic, a helm and cape over her shoulder. Stuffed a set of ragged leather gloves in her waistline. "Oh," she paused and looked at her Father. "Ye dinnae mind if I…"

Binoff again waved her off. "Just leather. I can bring some better gear to the Guild Hall… if I get a chance," he offered. His manner was still surly, his eyes still hard.

"Thanks," she smirked. Stomped to secure the boots.

Father shrugged, bent a lip and lifted a brow.

Rindy pulled the bolt with the crook of her elbow. She pulled the door in and slipped around the frame. The ruckus of Ironforge again invaded the home.

"Welcome to Mayday," Binoff shouted as the door closed at her back.

Rindy lingered at the threshold. Father was a bastard, a liar and a schemer, but he DID betray some hints of heartbreak. He just didn't know what to do with such emotion, she figured. Mother always said things changed after Gnomeregan, said she hadn't known him then. But Rindy knew her Father now. And Mother was dead and she hadn't asked about the body, or the other casualties. She'd be plenty funerary at the guild hall.

A passage of masses beyond the gate and her tiny yard. Just folk about their own business, a river of colorful indifference just across the moss lawn, four flagstones and a world away. Many types, all walks in the world... and mayhaps some were her sorts? She shrugged, lifted a foot. Froze. Realized. Decided. With a purse of lips she tugged the latch and pushed opened the door again.

Her Father and Grammy looked up from a renewed discussion at the trestle. Grammy betrayed a hopeful quiz, her Father just glared in query. Rindy reached around the doorframe, grabbed the axe from under the cloaks and backed out. Without a word or another glance she spun and stomped out. The door swung shut. She set the axe haft to rest on her shoulder.

The half-breed clumped across the quad of green toward the crowded Ironforge boulevard at just past two solar gongs. Folk in return from lunch, tourists out in force. T'was almost shift change at the 'Forge, just past the portal renewal in the Mystic Ward, a high time for griffs and the traum and surly crowds. Rindy admired her Mother's folk and their city, dwarfs were at least a part of her, mayhaps the best part.

She swung the iron lattice aside, looked to the left and right. Boxes of garden fence kept zoos of colorful lawn ornaments, the squat of mailboxes beside their gates and a thousand homes exactly like hers curved into the smokey subterrain distance.

Anywhere but here, she thought.

Rindy grinned automatically and plunged into a tide of anonymity. The Deeprun Traum was a hike from her rich neighborhood and she hadn't copper for a griff unless she risked a five-fingered solution. A lost draenei tourist blinked and gave her an over-wide berth as if the rogue's demeanor advertised her exact train of thought. A drunk leered at her from a beer garden loft. One of the neighbors battered a rug over her balcony. A meccastrider stamped through the throngs with predictable tact and care. A pair of Thief Catchers gruffly chatted and glowered at random passers-by, astride their rams on the far wall.

She'd left her favorite dagger in her room and that was unfortunate but she always had the two kunai spades strapped over her kidneys. Her strictly utilitarian hairpin was four inches of forged steel dipped in a fast paralytic poison. There'd be a slim stiletto in the left heel of her Mother's boot, a garrote in the laces of the right. Her gnomish thumbs could be deadly and she bore self-inflicted scars to prove it. She ducked behind a dark vendor booth and faded into the cold comfort of full stealth.

Rindy Cartrimer intended to emotionally hijack the Mayday Guild. She'd shed tears-little theatrics involved-and humbly insist on her Mother's raid slot in the guild. She'd ask about her Mother's corpse and eventually her Father's punishment. She was in fuggin' pajamas and her Mom's boots. Rindy had the gall to ride the Traum so but never the naivety to go unarmed.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter 3: A Day of Firsts

The Duel Plaza was a typical crowded field of shouts, clangs and laughter under a rare unclouded Dun Morogh sun and a frigid unblemished blue sky. Bone hollow winds hustled travellers, tourists, citizens, beast and machines on errands uncounted through powdered drifts and earthy white swirls. Thief Catchers patrolled gruffly efficient circuits between their brazier oases. Those trafficked of commerce or duty ramped to and from the lithic South Gate grudged minute-if any at all-heed to the simulation of blood feuds on the tundric shelf beyond their gait. In the beaten course of more vital affair and priority citizens bestowed lowly-if, again, any at all-judgement on the blowhard froth of duelists and their chaotic fans. Lo, those very duelists were oft to concede their sport at best a guilty addiction and at worst an endemic breakdown of contemporary moral standards. Still, a festival appreciation of combined violence and guile in a world so steeped of warcraft was mostly routine and few could claim honest despair on a practice in which most had partaken at one time or another.

Such activities drew a reliable and significant mass made to thirst and hunger in a fever of audience or participance. No matter the subject sordid or shameful a bankable need drew profiteers as certain as a scent of blood drew healers and predators. Wary officials tolerated the same soothed by the consistant glint of coin. Years of popular idiom redesignated the South Gate Courtyard as The Duel Plaza and even official nomenclature resigned to accommodate the moniker eventually. Similarly eager audiences and coinables made Dueling a staple attraction in all Azeroth and beyond.

Duelists wished to relive the epic bloodsports made lore long before neutral Duel Masters plied their contestant-preservative skills. Folk storied primitive times when one risked evisceration as well as honor-or so favored the rumors much to historian chagrin. Alas modern duelist traded their blows protected by Duel Masters' enchantments and so with most consequence suppressed by artful illusion and magick mitigation. Duelists observed faceted rules of formalized challenges with a deadly earnest-despite losers who rarely took more than bruises and embarrassment to the sidelines and victories that gained oft naught but the affection of witnesses and perhaps a sly of wager. So had the modern Art of Dueling removed mortality from the traditional martial clash of ego and skill. There was still a filter of pain and occasionally some blood but fatality had become flukish, not compulsory. Folk battered the zealous snot out of one and another with rarely more vital fluids-or limbs-shed in the course.

T'was not just unchecked bloodlust: Skills-otherwise difficult to master-could be practiced without cannilly and prosecution. Feud-unchecked perhaps to bloodshed-could meet a satisfactory proof. Partners of agonistic courtship could exchange energies without undo fuss or fratricide. Lovelorn upstart and underdog rivals met with far less extinction or successive tragedy in turn.

With little stake beyond self image some matches could prove a tad lopsided.

One such battle had just ended. Aloof and professional amidst the carnival ruckus about the field, a Duel Master planted the banner with a crisp delivery of "Match, Hemhu Lockwinder!" The winner ruffled his plumage to his admirers. In his wake the raggedy loser picked himself off the cold ground and cursed as the fanfare drifted away.

A paladin, rogue and now a warrior had been challenged and all three duels badly lost by the lanky stranger... in but the score of minutes Zilla the dwarf had shadowed the young human hunter. Zilla had first noticed him about the guild recruitment displays that morning. He'd been intrigued when he recognized his class a hunter and had started his scrutiny with high hopes but those had begun to fade.

Wee lad cannae fight, Zilla sighed. He t'ain't even any grace lost in falling down.

The paladin had simply healed and shielded until the hunter had exhausted his kudos. The paladin nudged the slim human once with her broadsword. The hunter crumpled and the duel master stayed professional... with visible effort.

The challenged rogue had cut in, slashed and faded, left the hunter stunned defenseless against lightning strikes and relentless feints. No speed could match the clever stealth of a practiced rogue. The match was short. The Duel Master cleansed the effect of multiple poisons from the sagged hunter in the aftermath.

A warrior opponent had simply charged and battered the hapless hunter until the Master closed the match with a tsk of concern. The warrior had quite the entourage and they were not kind to the loser. Disheartened the hunter faded away into the crowd and saw to other matches with a coyote distance.

Dinnae fash the lad, Zilla shrugged. Mayhaps he fancy a wee skelping. Human and hunter: no doubt the skinny lad been the butt of a few hilarities in his time.

A human hunter was a standout in the Eastern Kingdoms. Since the second war most agencies distrusted humans of the class and the Defias schism alone left human hunters at best suspect. Zilla boggled to think where and by who the human boy might have been trained. Within the due process of prejudice a stranger such as he would be barred from entrance to Ironforge and, in fact, risked prosecution. But one thing humans did-besides reproduce like kobolds and NOT hold their liquor-was splinter into factions. The guards at Ironforge or at least Karanos had interrogated the human about his origins, found his loyalties marginally acceptable and granted him a pass. Zilla squinted. The boy's gear was neutral and mixed and had lacked any visible pointy or boomy stuff while out about in town. No weapons meant he had a Red Pass-so his entry had been granted but tenuously.

Zilla was not an expert on human physiology but the he guessed the human to be in his early-twenties. So, a babe and nothing spectacular but a tad rare. Still... there was something about how the kid moved with a cadence and awareness that didn't quite ken. The patterns were familiar to Zilla but he couldn't… place... them. Perhaps a new hunter aspect spell?

The human was coy, fast witted and and never still. He looked out of place, a mite overwhelmed and sunken-eyed hungry but didn't advertise weakness. Zilla had elbowed up to a Thief Catcher who seemed to share his interest-if not his neutral judgement-of the stranger.

"Gilnean," the city guard had muttered darkly.

Zilla patted a thanks and pushed away through the crowd. He'd guessed the same. Three strikes for the lad: a stranger, a outcast and a traitor. Lass got all the perks, Zilla mused. Just my sort of sad case, he'd decided… before the kid mucked up three duels.

Eventually the human had passed the South Gate, recollected his weapons at the armory booth and made his way outside and to the windswept Duel Plaza. Zilla followed roundabout and had wandered a bit before he came back upon the distinctive human and his less-than-stellar first matches.

The human hunter continued to orbit the expansive plateau along the assumed limits to the herculean ramp and the queues to Ironforge. He'd traced the fenced edge opposite and tipped a gander to the sheer drop down to frozen river below. The hunter dulled about in apparent obliviousness caught up in some inner drama, no doubt. Zilla considered and admitted that perhaps his instinct was wrong this time. He'd been wrong-sort of and but only occasionally-before.

Besides, he sighed, seventeen hunters in a guild of one-hundred fifty folk WAS a mite steep. With my guildies all uptight about challenging the 'Core, Zilla considered, t'was naught the best crowd to tout charity or long chance on some baby human who shouldn't be.

A small blur of motion brought Zilla out of his ponders. The human had snagged a young elf's long fingers in somewhat unjustified proximity to his inner tunic pocket. T'was a quick blind grab and the human had turned-just so-that his rifle butt batted away a partner villain close on his opposite flank. As his crimemate grimaced away bruised, the trapped youngster struggled and swore up at his captor. Jerked nose to dirty nose with his intended mark he glared a skittish defiance.

The human sneered a mortician grin on the saucer of hardened dread he held close. He took the time to educate the junior brigand on how he MIGHT have broken a hypothetical thief's wrist. His free hand came around and slipped a flash of copper into the boy's ragged vest. A flash of teeth and the hunter shoved the cutpurse away into the crowd. The event had transpired in a mere breath and gained exactly zilch untoward hassle-even from folk crushed elbow-immediate to the incident.

A grunt of approval and a smile split Zilla's round ruddy, chestnut-furred face. Bedecked ear to jeweled ear, stocky to the extreme and a tad pudgy around the midriff the dwarf hunter made a blunt wedge through the crowds. Pleased, because he'd managed a better look at the human's firearm at last: T'was INDEED a Blastershot Launcher on the human's back. Ho! Our wee lad got into braw Molten Core, Zilla surmised happily.

The human pressed on, paused to mull thoughtfully at a few more duels and meandered into the center arena. Zilla followed discreetly. The midfield plaza was dominated by professional duelists, serial duelers and the slightly-frowned-upon cliques made for wager. The dwarf tarried in an admittedly morbid curiosity but winced at what he'd seen next.

The human chose to confront an obviously accomplished human male paladin. A few shoves and sharp words and eventually the brightly gilded foe frowned at the challenger and waved acceptance. In lieu of some misplaced anger displayed by the plated adversary Zilla guessed the hunter had previously motivated matters with rough business unseen. Mark two for the young'un, he harrumphed.

Zilla's shoulders drooped and he frowned at the exchange of bets between the human, the pally and a neutral holder-of-lots. "Och led," he mumbled to himself. "Ye bay ah brow fawl." He tarried with but a stitch left of his famous patience and on a tad of unfathomable instinct. The human tourist smooshed at his elbow slipped him a confused glance and so Zilla realized he'd spoken aloud. He smiled back numbly until the man looked away. T'ain't I just the master spy, Zilla jested.

The match began. The Duel Master backed away, waved his banner. The paladin snapped to a sharply aggressive stance behind his impressive two-handed claymore. The hunter dropped to a knee, set his gun on the ground and tossed his odd curved knife to wiggle blade-impaled in the earth a foot away.

The paladin shouted in obvious disdain and confusion, splayed gauntlet to the hunter's inactive repose. The Duel Master shrugged. After some more noise the paladin cut around to flank the hunter. The human countered, pivoted to always face his opponent but made no offensive or further defensive moves. The paladin swore and boggled. He rushed about until some of his more treasured admirers supposed a vocal air of bored dissatisfaction.

An angry call to arms gained but a wink from the hunter. T'was enough... The paladin's hands rose in invocation, a damage spell flared from his armored fingers. He cast with a frustrated flourish.

The hunter took the magick smite with a gasp and jerked down on both knees. A breath and he'd picked himself up and returned to neutral genuflection. The paladin laughed and his hands rose for another cast…

Wonder if he trying to bore our wee pally to death, Zilla speculated. At least the lass nae much for-

The hunter's rifle blurred up, fired, the stock slammed his shoulder.

The bullet shattered on the paladin's upper breastplate. The spell was interrupted.

Bystanders ducked by reflex as the shot echoed off mountains and monoliths.

The paladin staggered and raged, tantrumed at the cowardly-and ate a faceful of gunstock.

The hunter had dashed in at full charge. A sweep, contact and rifle stowed, the knife prized from the earth as he passed. He met the paladin head on. The knife rose and fell in a half-dozen sparked clashes that staggered the plated adversary. Blade held upright the hunter ducked under the paladin's instinctive arm block. He stepped firm, lifted, jerked, locked his leg behind the armored opponent's leg and swung around.

The paladin faltered as his boots scraped for purchase. The hunter was faster, used his knee and the paladin's outrigger leg as fulcrum, swooped behind as his opponent off-balanced. He came upright and curled an arm around the paladin's helm. Another lift, arm over the visor held fast from behind. A one-hand flip reversed, the hunter's knife came horizontal, the edge skipped on the gorget, a click, two, before it scraped in. The hunter's fingers pulled back on the visor, his knife jerked. The human rolled out on inertia as the paladin collapsed.

A stunned loll of the paladin's head showed a blue sliver on the duel shield-and a theoretically slashed throat. The hunter crouched into a three-pointed repost, knife high, gun held low. The nearest in the audience stepped wary of the sweep of his curved weapon. The human flashed a frantic blue uncertainty between the paladin and the grim referee.

The flag rose and the Duel Master announced, "Match, Ghim Grundlunder."

Now Zilla had a name to the face. He idly clapped with the rest.

Ghim righted. His gun rolled around his shoulder in a reload habit and slid strapped onto his back. His knife shunked into the sheath on it's own accord.

As the paladin shook his head and stammered-mostly in outrage-the lanky stranger nudged close to the wager holder.

Reward collected, Ghim examined the crowd until he met a response. He immediately redeposited the entire purse of coin into the same holder's palm and pointed. Zilla, found himself shuffled shoulder-to-shoulder with the wage holder, ducked aside with the crowd and looked for the target. A few moments later Ghim faced off with a leather bound female dwarf. The hearty rogue seemed to betray amusement but matched up nonetheless.

The moves promised to be lightning quick. Zilla mumbled and renewed his Cheetah Aspect to better witness the game. He doubted half the folk in the unaugmented audience had seen most of the fight moves. Those who could not or chose not to improve their senses with magick were no doubt relegated to witness blur, whoosh and whoever won. Zilla's own wife was a priest and lacked such an ability as his Cheetah Aspect and he oft wondered how she ever got by. Alas, he digressed, Zilla had his own handicaps that she'd no doubt point out.

A flutter of Master flag and the combatants excised any joviality, glared and circled. Foot over foot, leg around leg, backs coiled, grips pale on their steel. The rogue faded into stealth and the crowd bristled. As expected, the first move was lightning.

From magick-made-nowhere Ghim took a skull crack and staggered through a bevy of abuse as the rogue appeared, her blades a windmill. His duel shield was bright with gouges and slashes when he finally twisted away. The match seemed nearly at a close and the Master poised to judge.

Zilla was roughly hipped aside and vexed down to the rude intrusion. Blink. A tamed blue boar, modestly collared and accoutred, tusks pierced by cheap rings and tipped by hand-me-down brass had shoved in from the forest of legs behind the dwarf. The beast gruffly took thigh high vantage between Zilla and the wage holder. A surge from the audience. Zilla cursed the distraction and looked back to the fight.

Best he could tell, Ghim had paused the rogue with an elbow uppercut as he tucked into her next attack. The same motion of arm converted to a curve and blind reach. A hairsbreadth of relent and an immediate duck when his sweep of arm came back empty. He spun low in on the vector of last contact and swept a roundhouse. He kicked a leg out as a snag and pivoted again to keep his balance.

He'd guessed right-a bit: the rogue retrograded on an oath and avoided the grapple, spun with wings of her daggers. One blade clipped a lock of the red hair but naught else of significance from her target. Unphased as the dwarf pirouetted and grinned under a high-handed bravo move that saw both daggers blur airborne a flash swap of hands.

Ghim reeled back heel to toe and stood sidelong-made a smallest target for the unknown to come. He gripped his knife in one hand and looped the tail of his cloak around the other, crabbed into a bristle of knees and elbows.

Bloodied bridge of teeth framed deadly confident, back coiled and she kneed out and lunged, twin blades speared the front of her attack. The rogue twirled her twin blades as she slashed in, dodged left, feinted right. "Ye clarty bairn!" the dwarf cried and wiggled her high blade to catch a glint of harsh winter sun. A murmur afront from the dwarvish near amongst the crowd at the verbal slight. But the lass' smile hadn't dimmed.

Ghim took the low hit in glance from his bracer, bashed steel and flesh aside. He twisted boneless, caught the drop-thrust wrist and locked his arm. He curled into a tangle of arms. As the low jab lifted out he snagged her elbow by his axilla, rotated with the trapped wrist upright, elbows locked. He dropped to a knee on the high side, levered the rogue with him. Wrenched free and high-armed. Her head snapped back and he released. She fell onto her heels, blades thrown wide. Ghim one-two-jabbed a half-dozen cracks to the bridge of her nose, the last a heel open-handed. She stumbled.

He split up on a knee and threw the other leg forward, levered upright, hand flashed from his scabbard. As she struggled a repose his curved blade weighted by his spring slashed the rogue up from hip to shoulder. A massive blue scar across the duel shield left little need for explanation. Taken a tad unawares the Duel Master scrambled and rushed his call. His name was announced, Ghim received the two gorged purses. The rogue shook out and laughed, ducked into a one or two word conference with Ghim, touched his palm and parted ways.

Zilla was again firmly intrigued.

The purses disappeared and Ghim left the center court. He beelined to the same warrior who'd squarely defeated him shortly before. They exchanged rigid pleasantries under low brows and cast no wagers.

The Master signaled and the warrior squared-

Before the banner had settled Ghim's rifle snapped up, a triplicate of blasts into the warrior's billboard stance. The warrior staggered under a rain of concussion and explosive bullets and the hunter charged the warrior, jerked his rifle held low. The bayonet flicked out from the stock and a sudden razor tip gleamed under the smoke-trailed muzzle. The warrior instantly slashed a yard-wide half-circle of brilliant steel at the attack.

The spear nee firearm held low and the hunter ducked the deadly arc. He checked against his adversary. There was a split frenzy and grapple. The warrior attempted a bear-hug, but Ghim slinked under. He recoiled and rammed his rifle upward into the warrior's crossed of arms. Crowbar jerked back, a hand high on the warrior's helm.

The warrior's choice: Fall with the pull or open his guard to loose the lever; The warrior chose his guard, tucked his sword and oriented his arm to attempt again to entrap his opponent in a backbreak hug. The hunter rolled free and around the warrior and flailed his rifle arm outward to gain speed from his spin. The rifle whipped about and tucked in and the orbit closed in a blur.

A pirouette took the hunter around the steel grasp and his bayonet sparked across the man's faceplate. Second rotation, fulcrum-snare of hand on gorget and the gun came back stock first and high. The impact rattled the warrior's teeth through his chin guard. Ghim released his pivot hand, clawed his fingers over face shield. Held tight. The metal helmet snapped back, face shield prized open. The hunter hipped with all his weight against the off-balance warrior. A twist of knee and flail, the armored duelist turtled. A blur of rifle came about in a final reload spin under the hunter's shoulder. An overarm and the bayonet slammed a hairsbreadth short of the warrior's saucer of eyes as the duel shield shivered and spat-but held. The Duel Master nodded, his brow and Ghim's banner raised.

Zilla smirked and clapped, impressed. He teetered a second as the boar shoved around him and trotted away. Paused… some arse dun spilled a wee drink? On me leg? He looked incredulous to his elbow neighbor elf. She blinked back honest innocence, hands proved free of any suspect beverage. He darted, caught a fleet glimpse of the boarish rump just as the beast disappeared into the crowd. He attempted to track the boar to no avail, realized the pet had likely been dismissed by his master moments before.

"Did your animal just pee on you?" the elf asked, a touch repelled.

"Nae," Zilla managed. "T'wain't may baestee lass," he explained.

"Huh?" she acknowledged astutely.

"Ah see," he pointed. "Thay foggin booer t'wisn't meh pat."

"He peed on you," she putted redundently, frowned and walked away.

"Aye. Hey pade an meh," Zilla frowned. He remembered and squinted for his human hunter. Picked him out, he shook his leg and dashed after.

Ghim sought no more duels. He'd avoided banal congratulations, walked through the merchants and up to the citizen entrance at the Ironforge gate. He fumbled at his satchel until the guards waved him through. He efficiently deposited his armaments in the sequester lockers and sighed neutral spread and high-armed for the pat-down. Once cleared of the entrance the human summoned his pet. The boar clad in cheap brass winked into existence at his heel and glared up at his human. The hunter canted his head, shrugged and smirked. The boar raced off toward the Military Ward. The hunter turned opposite and away.

Zilla caught himself and swore, caressed a weary brow, brushed at his pant leg. His credentials had taken him through the gate with barely a fret so he'd lounged in wait lost in the bustle of the nearby auction house.

The human slipped into the first open tavern he met, ordered an ale and a platter of some sort of human food. He flirted with the stocky waitress and failed miserably. He shoveled the food into his mouth, paused to gulp his ale. Repeat. Breathed as a spare necessity. Sat somber an empty table on the perimeter of the inn's boulevard-based gated beer garden, back to the wall. After half an ale at the bar Zilla approached. The robotic feeding slowed, an eye flickered over a laden utensil at the dwarf intruder.

"Lad," Zilla smiled his warmest. "Ye team oh wee bare?"

The eye narrowed in silence.

"Ye pat," the dwarf tried again "Ye pat pade ahn meh."

Ghim was unmoved save to ask, "where?"

"Th dude plooza," Zilla explained.

"Oh," Ghim replied and took in his mouthful.

"Lad mand iv meh zit?" The dwarf motioned to the bench opposite.

The hunter eyed him a breath and shrugged.

Hearty smiled his warmest Zilla stepped over onto the bench. Frowned as the boy's dominant hand slid warily under the table. Brows beetled. A tad paranoid, Zilla judged. The dwarf lifted a finger. The barmaid bounced over and topped his tankard with a grin and a wink. "Hoya Zilla," she smiled warmly. Acknowledged the human with only a sidelong impatience.

"Thinks Marg," Zilla replied, all business and took a glug. Wiped his mouth, nodded to the human. "Soo, Ah say-"

"Ye were at the play fights," Ghim said quietly. "An'the guild poster place."

The barmaid cleared her throat. Swiped the table with her rag.

"Aye laddie," Zilla barely skipped a beat, "Ah t'was moch impressitted wit ye performins."

"Thanks," Ghim held his mug up with a sly smirk. "T'ain't real fightin'. Took some gettin' used to." He blinked, grinned to the server, "thanks... Marg."

The barmaid's countenance was tolerantly adequate and neutral as she filled his mug. Task complete she dashed away, animated brightly for the clientele at another table. Ghim considered the behavior with a slight wince .

"Haf ye dude mooch afore?" Zilla asked.

"Six times," the human said in a flat tone, "ye a big fan of play fights?"

"Nae partikhley." Zilla beamed proudly. Said "Ah th Hoonter Cap'in o'Vitae Aeternum," and held out his hand with a flourish.

The human looked at him blandly. Unmoved.

"T'is me gid. Ye lookt fo'wee gids," Zilla explained offset as he withdrew his offer.

"Eh. I want a guild thae speak Common," Ghim noted idly, "me dwarvish t'is o'lect'och un fuggad."

"Och lad. Bood ye kin swah," Zilla tsked. "Ye moomas nae prout Ah bat."

"T'was me mom teached me swearin'," Ghim looked away into the crowd. He glanced back thoughtfully, "already dun talked to folk in Viddy Whahoosit. T'was nae impressed."

The dwarf lifted a brow. "Oo t'was id?"

A pause. "Some uppity warlock," the outcast finally replied with a squint. He leant close. "Thae somethin' wrong with ye tongue?"

Zilla ignored the question. "Ah say. Nae uh hoonter," sat back and tipped his mug. "Soo haah meeny gids ye tray oot wit, boyo?" Zilla asked. "Sides me fave."

Blue flickered under low brows. The human ducked and traced a ring of ale on the table. Sighed and he shrugg-

"Greetings Captain Zilla!" A cheery-faced night elf clad in the immaculate foppery of a high rank Ironforge councilman approached the table. The dandy glibly broke the tableau, marched up like a parade and prompted the human's hand to again dive under the table.

"Aye Senor Bolla, ah ye weell?" The two exchanged hands. Zilla stood and moved around the table. Plopped down next to Ghim. Hands out offered the empty seat, "zit wit uz?"

Suddenly made wary, the elf considered with hand on chin. Murmured, "oh I don't know... I have a thing with Vella later…" Held up helpless for a breath before he grinned and eyed Ghim mischievously. Another pause for effect before his face lit and he moved to sit. Surrendered with a flair of his hands, "Oh I suppose my reputation is safe enough to corrupt some youth."

Ghim's hand went to his mouth, hid the irked smile that threatened his stoic poise.

Zilla wagged three fingers at the barmaid and then squared himself on the table. Hands out announced, "Bolla Valewarder, lemmie 'troduce Grimt Gerberbooten." The dwarf winked, elbowed Ghim playfully and nodded to the well-dressed newcomer. "Bolla bay sloommin' wit'uz plebes."

"Not at all... my Honored Constituents!" Smiled impossibly broader Bolla held out his hand. "Very pleased by the acquaintance, proud human."

Rubbed at his side, Ghim took the offer tentatively. The grip was strong. "Thanks," he mumbled. Sat and hunched his eyes darted between the two boisterous companions warily. Helplessly buried his nose in his mug as the two rambled brightly.

"Gimp hare th noost oh me braw hoonters," Zilla declared at a pause. "Hey jist joint wee Vitae Aeternum," said loudly as again his arm nudged the human's kidney.

Ghim choked on ale. Dropped his tankard to the table and glared at Zilla with vexation.

Bolla sat upright and stared at the human. "A HUMAN hunter?" Shown elf bright curiosity under sleek lifted brows, "That makes you…"

Ghim again sought refuge behind his drink.

"Gilnean," Zilla asserted, "Aye."

"The one folk are talking about on the dueling plateau!" Bolla patted Ghim's arm with excitement. "How exciting!"

Again Ghim coughed into his mug, eyes shifted, failed outrage and was ignored. His shoulders drooped in defeat as he rubbed his forehead with his free hand.

"Moe dranks wee Marg," Zilla extolled. "Ah bay bay ceelbradin' hey wee naw bozz nigh!"

Ghim squinted, afeared that he'd possibly understood the dwarf's warble. He settled as more drink arrived. Certainly the boisterous bearded wonder would forget his suppositions as the night grew boozy, and Zilla had so far paid for all the revelry… so what was the worst could happen? Ghim had learned his hard lessons about the thrice-damned guilds and he'd not make THAT mistake twice.

* * *

Kext sat back, feet planked on her desk. Her steam-powered pen ticked against her teeth, the owner lost to her thoughts. She had dressed for muster. Donned her Kirin Tor sash across her chest, plumed collar robe of blue velvet buttoned to her throat. Vitae Aeternum's emblem emblazoned her tabard beset by her glitter pins of rank and reward. Her large azure eyes stared over her sandaled feet. Lacked focus on the wainscotting beyond practically manicured toes. Normally she would have been so relaxed before the muster, absorbed in her thoughts of Guild duty and vital ceremony. Tonight was slightly different. Her thoughts found further afield.

Despite the fizzle of another recent out, Binoff had asked Kext on that next 'official' date, made no excuses of business or such nonsense this time, proclaimed his interests as specifically romantic in nature. As for his intentions… Kext admitted that she couldn't quite recall the actual date plans, figured for the arbitrary coffee at the Bronze Kettle or anything likely far removed from any open bar. She'd nodded numbly and smiled, figured his famously pronounced fair intentions and strong morals a challenge that might be circumvented given the right… motivation and circumspect.

As always, she had a full schedule of guild duties to work around. Binoff, as a guild initiate and potential officer was likely just as busy. Kext grinned, considered her roommate's vacant bed. Vella might have to be evicted to Bolla's tonight, she schemed.

For the sake of expediency of course.

As if called by her own ghost Vella stomped into the room, an oath growled under her breath. Kext looked on unconcerned. Her night elf roommate was passionate-hell downright crazy-for an elf and spikes in behavior were not particularly unexpected. The whisper was Dawnchange which Vella denied with a typical impunity.

Vella seemed to notice her for the first time when obstructed by the gnome's reclined chair in her path. Tossed up her hands and walked around to sit on her bed. Kext didn't query, she waited with feigned indifference.

"Zilla did it again!" Vella complained.

"Did what?" Kext asked patiently.

Dubious brows beetled at the gnome. "Come back with some ragged refugee from Elune-knows-where… bypassed the guild's entry exam OF COURSE, " she explained tiredly.

"Another hunter?" Kext emphasized 'another.' "That makes seventeen."

"Axe murderers all we know!" Vella rubbed her forehead, "Zilla INSISTS he has some magic instinct about these things." She shook her head, "I'll have you know he's taking a real risk with this one. Gone too far this time!"

"Vitae could always use more axe murderers." Kext smirked suggestively, "dungeons are a bloody business." She rubbed her chin with a dagger-nailed thumb. She blinked at Vella's sudden scowl and added thoughtfully, "but a REAL troublemaker this time?"

"Sure," Vella putted vaguely. "Well at least you'll get to meet another rare one," she speculated.

"Huh?" Kext turned her chair, leant down so her feet met the floor.

"He's human." Vella said simply.

Kext quizzed for a second before it hit her. "A HUMAN hunter?"

"Yes, a Gilnean apparently." Vella showed her empty hands.

"I've never met-" Kext started. "Well not in years," she recalled. "Supposed to be only exiles and half-breeds left." The gnome leant in. "He dress like a plague-caller? Wonder if he knows any Defias rebels. Is he unusually hairy?"

"Kext Blinglehopper," the night elf pronounced, "trustee of sordid rumors and stereotypes. Tsk. And with your background I'd think-"

"Good rum," the gnome added thoughtfully. Drummed her pen on her small teeth.

"Gnome curiosity," Vella murmured. "And drunk ambition," she chided.

"Hey!" Kext shot upright with dramatic umbrage and injury. "I'll have you know that I-"

"Didn't get half in the bag on the last cartel run?" Vella's brows beetled, "Didn't frighten poor Hyrm half senseless?"

"Exaggeration," the gnome insisted. "I thought we were discussing the new guildie, not my… Wait." Kext grew concerned, "did Hyrm say something?"

"Nothing lucid," Vella admitted dryly. "I wonder. What would your mother say, hmm?"

"Don't let a Streamrunner bully you," Kext replied defiantly and without hesitation.

Vella blinked. "Fair enough," smiled and swept out her arms.

The offer gave the gnome pause of fleeted suspicion, but she eventually recovered, submitted and accepted the hug.

After a moment the two separated, sat back and settled on a silent exchange until quick muffled strikes of the guild's cloister bell disrupted the tableau. Kext spun and snatched her journal from the desktop, threw herself forward pivoted her chair and her feet found the floor. "Games on," the gnome announced happily. She paused at the door, peered expectantly at her roommate.

Vella had also stood in a similar almost automatic reaction to the muffled ring of summons through the thick walls. Dismissively waved to Kext and turned to rifle through some garments on her own desk. "Be a moment," she mumbled.

The diminutive mage smirked, shoved a shoulder against the door and slipped out. Left the portal ajar. Vella stopped, righted herself and mused at the empty doorway. Her hand made a small move and the tiny bottle slid free from concealment in her sleeve. The nip was still warm from the deepest folds of Kext's tunic. The night elf sighed and cast a frown on the small portrait mounted most prominent on the wall as seen from Kext's desk. "I'm trying, Bet," she whispered. Pocketed the bottle and gathered her things, left in her roommate's path.

* * *

The night had so far gone much easier than Ghim expected. He'd been apprehensive about so many people in one small place. He'd worried about folks' questions and their attitudes. He'd been worried because he couldn't fade away from or put a bullet through the worry to end it. Zilla had well and truly sharked him in. The guilds were still alien to him. A myriad of folk, well dressed, well spoken. Folk who gathered to share adventure. He'd whistled silently at some of their equipment. The walls littered with tokens of accomplishment and mementos. A complex leadership pyramid. Free booze.

He'd never seen Mayday's apparently modest lodgings, t'was in Stormwind and he didn't go there.

First surprise: the Vitae Aeternum's digs were anything but small. A maze of great rooms connected by arches was carved deep into the solid strata from a secured entrance on the fourth-level Ironforge boulevard. Cozy and safe. There were kitchens. Baths. A warren of barracks for guild members. A battle practice room called 'the Stocks,' the casual mention of which by Zilla had perked his attention. The place rivaled a Cartel palace in many aspects.

Most Alliance species were represented in Vitae Aeternum: Night Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes and Humans. All shared the great hall, were a scatter of guildmates and friends, partners in a business of adventure, reward and danger.

The guild had all the classes distributed in fairly even numbers.

Warlocks were empowered by a dedication to the easily maligned dark magicks. Master demon summoners and delvers of fel corruption, sappers of will and strength. Enabled by the same insidious powers that spawned the Dark Portal and consequently three bloody wars, the more noble were hard-pressed to maintain trust among fellow mortals. T'was known too that sanity could be an endangered resource among Warlocks. They could transport folk from great distances with nether summons; a handy talent for support of a far-ranged raid guild. Unsurprisingly the human female, Cleo Farnum, who was the Class Captain and a Guild Lieutenant t'was dark of mood, judgemental and mousy.

The Priests were the ultimate healers and resurrectionists. Soothers of soul and body, a steadfast and vital few. Their training was intense, long and highly formalized. Most disappeared into the penitent priories who kept vigil against various magickal threats both real and imagined. But in their dedication worldly experience was not completely dissuaded, nor could a being's nature to wander be countered by rhetoric alone. So priests walked Azeroth and oft passed years among the less spiritual and sought adventure. The Guild Leader, Valen Brushdrover, was a priest. He seemed to also act as the Class Captain.

Rogues: shifty stealthers and scouts with a skill for ambush and a penchant for sharp, poisoned blades. Like the Warlocks, their oft-misused abilities found a grateful home in a society of gilded looters and plunderers. Ghim had not met their leader, would have been mildly surprised if they had one at all.

Alliance Druids were exclusively night elves in his experience. Friends of nature and the essences of live Azeroth. Shape shifters who could assume a variety of forms for different purposes. Typically support healers and damage-dealers could provide rezzes in a pinch. Could tank in bear form. Zilla had pointed out a tall very pretty elf as someone important among their class.

Mages. Arcane powered batteries of disaster and arguably the best crowd control a guild could employ. Spellchucker nobles among Druids, Priests, Paladins and Warlocks who tapped mana for their energies. Bent reckless by nature, tempered by harsh training. Mages also controlled two useful transportation spells; Portals to various set points on Azeroth and the short range jumps called Blink. Could transform folk into sheep, a handy, oft hilarious skill. Zilla had mentioned their Captain but Ghim had lost the name in his captain's cryptic manner of speech.

There were the Hunters, under Zilla. Mostly trained as snipers and scouts in the various aligned militaries. Keepers of tamed pets. In their ranks Ghim stood out. Human hunters had rebelled en mass during the second war, took to the Defias rebellion. Apparently no one trained them. Quietly he felt outclassed. He preferred not to linger on the hodgepodge that was his own training. Nor did he volunteer any insight. Zilla seemed fine with him so far, oddly excited for him even.

He'd bumped into a gorgeous paladin-he hadn't caught her name-and she'd enjoyed the bump almost as much as had he. Paladins were denizens of the Light. Healers and resurrectionists but mostly treasured for their powerful magickal buffs. A paladin could bolster an ally's health and stamina, fighting ability and other characteristics. Stood apart from the other spellchuckers as wearers of heavy plate armor. Could take a thrash and give right back. A human male with the unlikely moniker of Sincleanser was their leader.

And the Warriors, powerfully armed, heavily armored. The tip of the spear in attacks. The best tanks, designated to hold an enemy at point while the others applied their damage. Personalities differed, but warriors often socialized in bearing to their brash nature.

Ghim had always been amazed by folk who made careers of adventure. The guilds represented the cream, the sharpest edges. Big mana. Ghim had a short history with guilds. Mostly run-ins for cartel enforcement on individuals. The recent mess with Mayday. Cartels were not guilds. Not by a long shot.

And now he sat again among beings he'd quietly admired, grudgingly encountered. Held his tongue and kept low. Damn, he'd gotten buried deep this time, he mused. He tried relaxed and happy. Felt alien. Eased, perhaps by ale before the muster, or Bolla's fine humor, or Zilla's friendly slurred candor… and he was badly hungover. He hoped he wasn't grinned up like an idiot.

Zilla leant over, "Lad, nae ye execushun, ye kin tray smeelin'!"

Ghim produced the required smile and Zilla seemed placated.

A mage Blink spell- Ghim's hand dove for an absent hilt on his empty belt.

The short ranged transport magick cracked from an entry arch and snapped to instant coalescence before a table full of mages yards into the room. The magick gave away the presence but at first he only saw the attentions of the fellow mages. The new arrival stood hidden behind folk at their tables. Ghim was intrigued: A Blink spell into such a crowded room was reckless and that made him really smile.

The mage hopped into view, stood onto a chair. He saw the gnome's mop of silvery hair first and then the fine fit of her robes. Neat. A lot of little medals and a purple sash. Confidently she addressed the other mages. He realized that she was their Captain, the one Zilla had mentioned. He'd not met many gnomes before Ironforge. Never a leader. Goblins, sure, gnomes, nae.

She led her table of mages in a fancy chant. Met some personal points leant in close to her fellows. The group settled and the gnome mage sat in the chair, pulled a little book from her robes. Turned and scanned the room, chinned over her shoulder to view the hunter table.

Their eyes met. The gnome's were a remarkable blue like the open sky between heavy clouds and big as saucers to Ghim. Her face was rounded as her people tended to have, her nose pug and freckled. She stood perhaps a hair over three feet in height. Typical.

Her mouth open in the midst of a word she paused. Reckless and proper.

Ghim's dimple twitched in a hint of a smile not entirely of his own violation. The Mage Captain did a slight double-take and dropped the little book she carried. He looked away as she did with no wish to impose. Ghim admitted to no one but he had a soft spot for mages. He suspected his mother had been a mage. Again he kept this to himself.

And Ghim recognized the mage's sash as Kirin Tor. Big mana, as Grekthrope might have said. Serious talent, scary power. He hoped he'd get to see her work, and not from her bad side. In a day of surprises he allowed himself yet another pleasant fancy: Gnome or not, this first-rate spellchucker was actually quite pretty.

Kext gathered her ledger, had to scramble a bit and ask Dom to hand her the pen. When settled she looked back at the Gilnean but the newcomer had looked away, intrigued with the guild charter on the wall. She risked a moment stare with no wish to impose.

He was smaller than most humans, wiry and full of angles. He was tanned, unlike the city folk she knew. The darker skin made an odd contrast with his red hair, cut short on his head and trim about on his face. Not neat. Functional. Forced a casual air.

She didn't think she'd ever seen a human so lean, like an animal bred for a race. She chided herself; had compared the man to an animal! Wrote quickly in her little book, the glyph for Gilnea. She was pretty sure his eyes were blue, but dark beneath heavy brows, hard to be sure from across the room. He was not very handsome, but he was indeed interesting.

Kext looked away to the raised stage where the seats were still empty, waited for the leadership to finish their conference. Vella described the Gilnean's personality as standoffish, uncouth and bucolic. Kext figured she wasn't in any danger of falling in love.

* * *

Ghim napped pleasantly, eyes wide open and hands crossed in his lap, back straight.

The guild bosses had gone on for a while now about things he wasn't immediately concerned about. He'd heard that he was to come to the guild hall every morning and find out if he was included in whatever big mission they had planned. If not, he'd work into a smaller guild team and go look for trouble. Free food provoked his immediate interest.

How odd to look to find trouble as a habit. In his experience the trouble always found you. Cities, guilds, gnomes. He sighed. If the pretty officers went on too much longer, he'd like to fall-

"Ghim Grundlunder, front and center."

He was startled awake as Zilla patted his back. He looked around and just about every face returned his stare with friendly expectation. Numbly, he stood and slipped among the tables. Twice he jerked away from hands offered, but thankfully he recovered and accepted the greetings numbly. He passed the bumpy paladin and she squared her shoulders and looked up at him with a mischievous smile. A hazel glint of intrigue.

Kext looked on, interested as the rest.

She heard quiet voices near about. "He moves like a whipped dog," observed one. "Or a snake," suggested another. Kext looked sidelong, saw that the speakers were humans, of course, one of her mages and a warlock. Spoke addled with mistrust for a human hunter or disdain of his Gilneas heritage.

She looked back and the man-Ghim-had stopped not a few feet from her, faced the stage. He did have a nicely fit posterior… she noted Vella's surprised smile and looked away with a blush. Damn, she was going to hear about it now. Vella loved gossip.

She noticed Binoff at the warrior table. Tried to catch his eye but he seemed oddly and unhappily intent on the Gilnean.

Chose a spot that seemed to be center before the stage of Officer folk, Ghim stopped, hands at his sides after again found no hilt to rest upon.

Valen, the guild bigwig stood, grinned proudly. Offered his hand at the end of a tremendous night elf reach. Ghim grasped with a little uncertainty.

A firm shake and the other hand offered him a small metal thing. Ghim took this and saw it was a pin with the design of the guild crest. He held this out awkwardly. Luckily Zilla appeared at his side, took the pin and attached it to Ghim's tunic.

Then Zilla pushed him about with his hands on his shoulders, left Ghim to face the room.

"Welcome to Vitae Aeternum, Ghim Grundlunder!" Valen announced in his cultured night elf tone. An eruption of claps and smiles but not exclusively so. By habit Ghim took note of the owners of stilled hands and frowned countenances. He figured there'd be a few snakes to watch for. Maybe a few snobs who needed a smack about.

Still, he was oddly proud of himself.

And quite suddenly fond of Zilla, despite. He passed his gaze over the appreciative crowd. The brown-eyed girl whistled. Good to note. He paused on the gnome mage but she clapped lightly, looked at the aside distractedly. Numbly he followed her gaze. Startled as he met Binoff's angry glare.

Kext tried to read Binoff's unquiet repose. Had something gone wrong at the officer's meeting? Perhaps the bid for an officer position was voted down? The warrior suddenly glared anew, hand blurred to his scabbard. Kext noted that in front of the stage, Ghim glared, his hand had darted behind his back. Hate flashed on both faces before both recovered, forced sudden shared neutral repose and feigned indifference to each other. Duly noted.

Ghim was led off by Zilla. Binoff taken to council at the leadership table. After a fast exchange between the officers, Binoff ducked away. Stomped from the room. Kext watched him go, concerned.

Valen stood, "I'm afraid I have to end this gathering on a low note," the night elf said.

The room quieted, eyes front.

Ghim and Zilla stopped, looked on.

Valen bowed his head, "I've just been told that the Mayday Guild has been declared lost in Molten Core. As you know, Binoff and Grammy are former members, please consider them in your thoughts along with their former guildmates."

"Ghim doo," Zilla added, too loudly.

Ghim frowned. "T'aint known them well," he mumbled.

"The whole guild?" Sincleanser, the paladin guild officer blurted.

"Yes, all twenty-four," Vella said.

"Oo runst braw 'Core wit boot a score oh fook?" Zilla boggled. "Lads en lassies must'ah bane sotted! Taes footy fook, et doos."

"There must have been some pickups," someone called from the tables, "last I knew they were only one and twenty."

Valen held up his empty hands and sat back somberly.

Dimly Ghim saw the gnome mage hop up and hurry off in the path of the rodent warrior. The human was outward stilled but privately floundered in a crash of moments. He wavered a breath, looked about for an escape from a room of eyes and opinions. He'd bumped Zilla in his distraction and the prime hunter had affixed on him with concern. "Ye quit rit lad?" the Captain asked.

"Little," Ghim managed.

"Oh! Throw thar," Zilla pointed, "Three the ark, doon the haw."

Ghim blinked.

The dwarf sighed and rolled his eyes. "Thae un thae," Illustrated his instructions with twists of his hand. "Ye met the wee steeh doo t'is 'the Stocks' un ye goon a beat tah fah."

The human understood enough. Slipped out through the arch in the general direction. Indeed found the little, but the hall beyond was dark and deserted and he dove into the shadows and backed against a wall round a corner. He faced a trio of doors with little ornate script labels. Slid to a knee-high squat, head in hands. Stayed as so long moments obscured in the gloom. Eventually heard the light taps of hoof on the flagstones not unexpected. Looked sidelong into Grampose's close concern and confusion. His distress had, of course, drawn his companion.

"Rindy bought it. T'ain't saved," he whispered to the boar. "Nae she. Nae a fuggin' one of'em."

The beast rested his snout on Ghim's shoulder. Huffed a breath. The human's hand reached blind and found the familiar cowlick to scratch. Settled as such for a space, drew inside as he shut his eyes and cradled the sting. T'was unmoved until the girl called him out.

"Not quite true then?" she asked.

Ghim darted a silent scrutiny to her stance at the corner of light and shadow. Kept otherwise still. Grampose moved with deceptive calm to a station at her feet, snout worked over the bright steel greaves and blunt sabatons. She'd clamshelled her breastplate and mail shirt, exposed a fancy half-tunic buffer. Had her gauntlets, helm and other gear clipped about her belt.

The human had her raven hair tucked back in a ponytail. Regal in poise and posture, had the pale complexion of city folk. A traditional and severe beauty. Her presence was perhaps untimely, but not at all chore to consider. She'd relented after a breath or two of her own silent regard over his funk. "Ye say ye t'ain't known them well." She crossed her arms and leant against the wall. "Don't look like it to me."

Ghim ducked away and shrugged.

"Talk?" she asked. The word a question, a request, and an invitation.

A pause and Ghim gave her a hard look. The girl shuffled with a touch of uncertainty. Hesitated a moment more before she started to say, "Well, I just thought-"

"Sure we can talk," Ghim interjected. He looked quickly to the opposite wall and down the hall.

And the door at the end swung opened. The diminutive Mage Captain swept out, had dressed down to a more casual drape of silk blouse and cashmere pants. Had rearranged her metallic hair in a less formal poof tucked in a band high on her head. Blinked, took in the two humans. "Oh," she said. Found herself looked down on Ghim in his current pose.

"Cap'in Kext," the paladin nodded.

"Hello Mahrah," the mage smiled up, looked back down, "Ghim is it?"

"Usually," Ghim replied quietly.

Kext smiled at this. Again blinked as she noted Grampose. "Everything okay?"

"Rough news," Mahrah explained.

"Yes," Kext said, "I'm off to take Binoff and Grammy to the seventh for a few drinks." A moment of disconcert passed her features as she looked to Ghim. Sighed.

"Hmm, coincidence," Mahrah lifted her brow, "I was just plannin' to get our new hunter somewhere noisy and boosy." She showed empty palms, "Rendrell's Pub maybe?"

Ghim glanced surprised askance to his fellow human.

"Little rough for my brand of chemical psychology," the mage admitted. Shrugged. "Eh, perhaps I'll see ye about." Smiled warmly. Tipped her head at Ghim. "Sorry about your loss Mr uh…"

"Grundlunder," Mahrah noted helpfully.

"Mr Grudkunder then," Kext soothed, "please accept my welcome to Vitae Aeternum."

"Thanks… Cap'in," Ghim replied. Welcome to Vitae Aeternum indeed, he thought. He didn't belong.


End file.
